


14 Ways to Say

by Yuugisgirl



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America is oblivious, Confessions, England is a fail, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, The other nations are along for the ride, USUK - Freeform, Valentine's Day, tsudere!England
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-12 22:33:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1202995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuugisgirl/pseuds/Yuugisgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America was a romantic buffoon obsessed with his own grandiose Hollywood love stories. Of course he wouldn't be able to feel England's love through subtlety and kindness, not with the clichés of Tinseltown clouding his mind. No, America would not sense delicacy. He was expecting exaggeration and grandeur. And if that was what it took to obtain his desire, then, pride be damned, England would do it.</p><p>Operation "British Seduction" was a-Go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So I originally posted this a couple of years ago on fanfiction.net (under the same penname if you want to check it out), as a chapter-per-day lead up to Valentines Day (hints the title). For various reasons it sort of fell to the wayside, but I'm in the middle of revising/re-posting all the chapters and (finally) finishing it so I thought I'd post it here as well. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

14 Ways to Say

_Prologue: Operation British Seduction_

England fancied himself to be a very self-aware person. He knew his likes and dislikes. He knew his own strengths and weaknesses. And unlike most of the loud mouthed, arrogant to-the-t nations he knew, England was not a victim of false modesty. He was well aware that he had a penchant for drinking himself into oblivion. And, try as he might to perfect it, anything he cooked came out with the consistency of a boulder and the coloring of smog. (He daren't even _mention_ the flavor). However, he also knew himself to be very self-assured. He was a genius at reading the atmosphere (enough to give even Japan a run for his money), and he was perhaps the most attractive country in all of Europe (his eyebrows were absolutely _fetching_ , damn frog).

Yet, despite all of his knowledge about himself, there was one aspect of his character which England had absolutely no grasp on:

His love for America.

England wasn't quite sure when, exactly, this… _thing_ had started. He knew he had loved the boy from the moment America had called him "brother" in that open field all those years ago (In a _strictly_ platonic way! England was not a bloody pervert like certain rose-bearing Frenchmen). Still, England was not entirely sure when that love had gone from a strictly parental/brotherly affection to something… _more_.

America, that beautiful boy with a heart larger than the sky and dreams more vast than all the seven seas.

America, that ungrateful child who had crushed England's heart and left him broken a muddy field of war.

America, that friend who had held his hand as his entire world crumbled in a cacophony of sound and a blaze of fire.

_America._

England might not be sure _exactly_ when, but he knew that somewhere between Jamestown and the Blitz of London things had _changed._ He had come to savor the casual arm slung around his shoulder, the idiotic smile flashed in his direction, the random visits to his house or invitations to lunch _just because America felt like it._

And it didn't matter that America insulted his cooking and laughed at his eyebrows. It didn't matter that the fool was torturously obnoxious or that he was oblivious to the point of cruelty.

England _loved_ him.

So he'd tried to show him. He'd taken America out to lunch at the most horrid, greasy establishments (he swore his cholesterol skyrocketed just by walking through the doors)—all for a glimpse the childish joy which stretched his smile as he took a bit of his burger and the _Oh Iggy, you're the best_ that followed (even though the git always talked with his mouth full).

And when the idiot trounced in thirty minutes late to a World Conference Meeting—complaining loudly about the crappy Made-in-China alarm clock that didn't work because it wasn't from the good ol' US of A—he would find a star-spangled journal, a red and blue pen and an extra mug of coffee (no cream and two sugars) set neatly at his seat.

England did all of the little things—complementing the latest (horrific) Hollywood action film, always carrying candy in case that hero's-appetite kicked in, and even going so far as to create one of those bloody facebook accounts just to chat with the git at three in the morning (time differences be _damned_ ). But still, the object of his affection remained painfully oblivious to it all.

And then England realized that he had been going about everything in the completely wrong fashion.

America was an idiot. He couldn't read the atmosphere to save his (rather glorious) behind.

And what had England tried to woo him with? _Subtlety._

England had been a fool. But no more. America was a romantic buffoon, obsessed with his own grandiose Hollywood love stories. Of course he wouldn't be able to feel England's love through presents and kindness, not with the clichés of Tinseltown clouding his mind. No, America would not sense delicacy. He was expecting exaggeration and grandeur.

And if that was what it took to obtain his desire, then, pride be damned, England would do it.

Operation "British Seduction" was a-Go.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OPERATION: "British Seduction"  
> MISSION: Obtain the affections of one Alfred F. Jones aka "America"  
> STRATAGEM: Alpha  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (See end notes for French translations)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or its affiliated works any more than Prussia still owns Austria's vital regions.

14 Ways to Say

_Chapter 1: Stratagem Alpha_

So, England was sneezing. A lot.

Wave after wave of violent nasal projection continued to explode from his nose, try as he might to suppress them. And it didn't help that each volley of sneezes was accompanied by a shower of sputum and a long, drawn-out cry of "Ah…Ah…Ah…AH!", like he was bloody singing or something.

England scowled, catching sight of his reflection in the mirror on the far wall. He looked a right mess—hair mangled (even more so than usual), eyes swollen practically to slits, and a horrible red blotch distorting the fair skin of his face. It was almost as awful as the one time he had stumbled across a nude France in the middle of a very…odd experiment with honey and deck of playing cards (and wasn't _that_ an image).

Still, England could not allow his own body to ruin what could possibly be the happiest (and hopefully most smut-filled) day of his life.

He had it all figured out.

England had watched at several dozen (atrociously cheesy) Hollywood romance movies in order to "get in the zone" as the Americans liked to put it. He had waded through the thick muck of clichés and horrid writing, analyzing everything from "The Notebook" to "Twilight". He had studied. He had dissected. Hell, he'd _memorized_ half the bloody things.

And now, fully versed on the methods of American courtship, England was ready to make his move.

Which brought him back to the sneezing.

Perhaps things hadn't been going _completely_ according to plan.

England had noticed a strand of commonality between each of the films (if you could really even call them such): flowers. Of course, England realised that the giving and receiving of flowers was not a specifically American tradition. Plenty of nations were known for it. He himself had initiated friendship with Japan over bouquet. Yet there had not been a single picture he had seen in which flowers did not play a part—whether the heroin be receiving them, throwing them or watching her love interest stand in an open field of her favourites—it seemed flowers were essential for any one couple to find happiness (at least in American dramas). So, England had gone a bit… _wild_.

Upon learning that the latest World Conference would be held in Washington D.C., England had immediately called up any and all of the area’s local florists and proceeded to buy out their entire supply of red roses. The breed of flower was important. Not only was it a universally recognized symbol of love, but it was his and America's shared National Flower (and that most certainly did not make him think about silly things like _destiny_ ).

He had arrived at the Conference Room several hours before any of the other nations (jet-lagged and/or hung over as most of them were likely to be) and set to work.

His plan was foolproof.

England had rigged the hundreds of stem-less roses to the ceiling in a tarp and a pulley-system. He held the release cord in his hand and would let it fly the moment America walked through the front doors. And while ( _his_ ) beautiful America was enraptured by the falling petals, England would kneel before him, present him with a heart-shaped box of the finest Swiss chocolate (he'd decided on food rather than jewelry, it was _America_ after all) and confess his undying love.

Well, perhaps something a little less melodramatic, but that was the general idea.

A small hitch in his preparations had come when England realized he was slightly allergic to the roses' pollen. He'd always known he'd had allergies to such things, if the mild hay fever he experienced every spring was to go by (he was _not_ a masochist for keeping a garden, damn it!), but it had never really bothered him before.

Of course, when had he ever been around so many flowers?

Sneezing again and checking his watch, England decided to put the matter aside for now. America would be too swept away by his extreme display of affection to notice a runny nose, anyway. Now all England had to do was wait.

Which turned out not to be as simple of a task as he originally thought.

As the conference time drew near, more and more nations began arriving. Most, like dear Japan and prudent Austria, kept their comments and questions concerning the massive amount of flowers to themselves.

Others, like the ( _damn_ ) frog, were not as accommodating.

"Ah, Angleterre! You are looking as awful as always!" France chirped, flicking the end of England's red nose. "For once your gargantuan brows are not the most unattractive thing upon that visage you call a face. I congratulate you!"

He gave England a long, sweeping bow, barely managing to dodge the knee which came flying towards his head. "Shut that wine sucking _garbage disposal_ you call a mouth before I shut it for you, you damn frog!"

"Someone has a bit of une problème de colère this morning, non?" France said with a wink, though taking a precautious step backwards just in case. "Is this overly-irritable nature of yours natural or," and here those (perverted) blue eyes flicked upwards, "Does it have something to do with this?"

France lunged for the dangling cord in England's hand. The shorter nation let out a (completely gentlemanly) cry, his elbow jutting out to strike France directly in the middle.

France doubled over gasping, and England scrambled backwards as far as the very short cord would allow. "Try and touch it again you bastard, see where that gets you!"

France straightened with a glare. "And what exactly would you do? Send one of your imaginary friends to sprinkle leaves on me?" 

"How dare you insult my faries you wine-loving tool!"

"Black Plague of Europe!"

"Pedophile!"

(Nations continued to pass through the entrance, completely ignoring the homicidal rage-fest.)

"Enough!" England finally shouted, grabbing France's wrist as the other attempted to pull at his hair. "I won't be able to hear him coming with all of this noise!"

“Him?” France's eyes traveled from England's slightly anxious expression to the mass of flowers dangling above their heads and back again, a wide smile stretching his face (his "creeper-smile" as America liked to call it).

"Is this," France gestured above them, "all for the sake of l'amour?"

England's face flushed a deep shape of red. He turned away, coughing pointedly.

"So it is!" France exclaimed, completely forgetting about their fight and throwing a jovial arm around England's extremely stiff shoulders. "Why did you not tell me before? I am the country of l'amour, am I not? I could have helped you!" He tousled England's hair with mock-affection, earning him an angry shove.

"It doesn't bloody concern you, so sod off!"

"Ah, do not be that way," The blue eyes were glinting with that same light they assumed whenever France heard the slightest mention of love. "Now tell me, who is your personne special?"

Just as England opened his mouth to politely tell the frog to leave (in other words, yell at him until he got the hell away), he heard the footsteps coming down the hall, accompanied by a voice that had been dogging his dreams for over four hundred years.

Shoving the frog away (and completely ignoring the indignant shout that followed him), England poked his head out of the double doors. There he was, coming up the path with Lithuania at his side.

America.

_America._

In all his star-spangled, leather-jacketed, golden-haired _glory_.

England's knees began to tremble.

This was it.

Pulling back into the room before either (his dearest) America or Lithuania could notice him, England gripped the cord tightly, taking a deep breath. It was going to happen. It was _finally_ going to happen. America would _know_ and be _his_ and they would fly away into happily ever after atop a magic carpet (he may have watched a bit too many Disney movies as part of his "research", but that was irrelevant now.)

Heart beating wildly, blood pumping in his ears, England watched the handle to the room turn, heard the hinges creak as the wood swung forward…

Without a moment's hesitation, England yanked the cord, spilling a dazzling array of red petals upon the tall figure standing in the doorway. While the flowers flowed downward, England reached behind him, grabbed the box of chocolates, and fell to his knees. He flung his glaze upwards, not wanting to miss the shock and wonder reflected in those deep, beautiful-

…purple eyes?

"Oh England, this is your doing. What a sweet gesture, though I must say I rather prefer sunflowers. Perhaps next time, da?"

Cold horror spread throughout ever particle of England's being.

"Hey, what's going on? Let the hero through!"

And suddenly America was there, staring at England. Staring at England whose eyes were swollen with allergies that made him appear as though he was crying tears of joy. At England, whose expression was still frozen in that glazed look of unadulterated love. England, who was on one knee presenting a box of chocolates to _Russia_.

_Oh Bollocks._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at Russia all trollin'. He can't help it if he's irresistible. ^J^
> 
> That's all for chapter one. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> Next Update: 2/19/14 (And in case you're wondering, yes, there will be an update everyday).
> 
> Till then, my pretties.
> 
> -YG
> 
> French Translations:
> 
> Angleterre: England
> 
> Une problème de colère: An anger problem/ problem with anger management
> 
> Personne special: Special someone
> 
> L'amour: Love (But that should be a given)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OPERATION: "British Seduction"  
> STATUS: Stratagem Alpha failure  
> REASSESS--> Mission upgrade  
> STRATAGEM: "Bravo"  
> COMMENCE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In keeping with some of my original ff.net A/N:  
> Disclaimer: Obviously I don't own Hetalia because everything originated in Korea.

 

14 Ways to Say

_Chapter 2: Stratagem "Bravo"_

The entire world (literally) froze for a fraction of a second. Then all hell broke loose.

"Well Angleterre, this is… _unexpected_."

"Oh my, such boldness England-san!"

"Ve~ Germany, isn't it cute~?"

"…adorable…"

"I knew the entire time-aru."

"Like, OMG!"

"Dear God, where's my camera!"

"Elizibeta, some common courtesy _please_ …"

"Psh, the Awesome-me is way better than some hairy Russian!"

"Ah, young love. It just makes you feel so warm inside, right Romano?"

"GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME SPAIN-BASTARD!

With a bang, Switzerland fired his gun into the air, effectively silencing the turbulent crowd. "All of you shut your traps before I beat you with my Peace Prize!"

Romano and Spain broke apart, the latter with a blossoming black eye. Prussia stopped trying to use the situation as a distraction while he seized everyone's vital regions (his hand slipping subtly away from Austria's waistband). Japan jumped from Hungary's side, pretending that he hadn't been drooling over the screen of her camera. Germany managed to peel Italy's arms off of his waist (again). Poland huffed and flipped his hair. Greece slept.

Somewhere near the entrance, a soft voice said, "I don't mean to be rude, but what's going on, eh?"

No one seemed to hear it.

England remained frozen in his mortifying kneeling position, the expression on his face slipping from affection to unadulterated horror. _Oh hell, oh hell, oh dear sweet bloody **hell.**_

He was royally _fucked_. (And not even in the good way).

His eyes were playing ping-pong, bouncing between Russia and America in rapid succession. England wasn't sure which was worse, the possessive leer spreading across Russia's face, or the fact that America had actually been shocked into _silence_.

He had a feeling it might just be the latter.

Tilting his head to the side and smiling eerily, Russia strode forward, seized England by the forearm and hoisted the Brit to his feet. (And bloody hell what kind of person had hands big enough to fit around a grown man's entire arm?)

"I take it this means you are now ready to become one with Russia, da?" he said with a smile. "It is only to be expected. All will be one with me someday."

England swallowed thickly, unable to think anything past _DearGodRussiaistouchingmeI'mgoingtodieI'mgoingtodie!_

"Woah hold on there bub, I don't think he meant that."

And then America was there.

_God Bless the USA_.

"What are you saying? It seems quite obvious that little-England wants so be with me." The hand on England's arm tightened.

He decided against commenting on Russia's statement. He rather liked his arm remaining attached to the rest of his body. (And he was not _little_ , blast it all!)

America moved forward to stand beside Russia, signature oblivious smile stretching his face. "This," he waved a hand at the array of flowers, "has gotta be a joke." He patted Russia on the shoulder consolingly. "No offense dude, but Iggy isn't the kind of person for big gestures. He's British, they only show affection to, like, horses and dogs. He musta lost a bet or something. Sorry."

America turned his (brilliant, wonderful, why-can't-they-be- _mine_ ) eyes on England. "Who put you up to it? My money's on France, but you never know who _you_ end up betting against when you've had a few drinks."

The whole room had begun to murmur, whispers flying from one end to the other. There was a general hum of agreement, as though America might have actually read the situation correctly (for once). Why else would _England_ of all people put on a grandiose display of affection?

(Good to know the entire world thought him a cold-hearted bastard. Truly spiffing.)

With an enormous effort of will, England jerked his arm away from Russia's reluctant hold. Face flushed, hands trembling, England focused his thoughts and calmed his breathing. He knew what he had to do.

For Queen and Country.

"Whaz goin' on 'ere? Why the bloody 'ell are you touchin' me ya smarmy git? Where's my bot'le? I want inothur shot, blast it! And wha' re all these bloody flowers doin' 'ere anyway?"

There was much that could be said about England, but first and foremost, he was a damn _splendid_ actor.

Stumbling groggily forward, England collided with America's chest ( _completely on accident_ ) and clutched at the lapels of his rumpled jacket ( _do not smell his neck, do not smell his neck, do not smell his neck_ ). England knew enough about how he acted while intoxicated to know what to say next, but that didn't make him anymore proud of it.

"Why'd ya leave me ya ungrateful brat? Wha'd I do? You 'ate me now, and I don't know nuffin' 'bout why? He began to sob against America's shirt, babbling nonsense words with the occasional curse, "brat", or "damn frog" thrown in.

_Curse his life. Curse his life and everything in it._

"Calm down Iggy, jeez." (And England could practically _feel_ the git's eyes rolling) A warm hand came up and patted the top of England's head ( _do not nuzzle him, do not nuzzle him, do not nuzzle him_ ).

The rest of the nations quickly became bored with the rather common occurrence, shaking their heads and dispersing to their various seats—with Germany bemoaning the loss of so much meeting time (though Japan and Hungary were whispering excitedly about something which sounded suspiciously like "doujinshi").

England was pushed away from the warm chest he'd been leaning against. He gazed with mock-bleariness into those eyes of blue and wished that something in life might go his way, just once.

America. That was all he wanted, nothing more. Why was it so bloody _hard_?

"I do not appreciate being used as the butt of your joke, little-England. I am not amused." Russia was still smiling at him, but a menacing purple cloud was beginning to form behind him. (And England most certainly did not slink closer to America under his icy gaze).

"I will be… _seeing_ to this issue later. For now," Russia gave him a full-body onceover, his smile widening, "Sit tight, da?"

_What the hell did that mean?_

With that, Russia walked away, his dark cloud following behind.

(So it seemed England's immanent death was nigh. Lovely).

"You sure picked a great day to get smashed." America was smiling again, not at all concerned with Russia's previous statement (not that England _cared_ if America worried about his wellbeing or anything). "Why don't you go home and sober up a bit? I'll call a cab. "

America had already pulled out his cellphone and was dialing. Putting the device to his ear, he gave England a thumbs-up. "Don't worry about notes. Mattie'll cover for you."

_Mattie? Who on Earth was that?_

From somewhere near America's right, a voice said "Actually, I'm kind of busy. I don't think I'll have time…"

Neither England nor America seemed to hear it.

\---

England sat alone in his hotel suite, dark circles under his eyes and a bottle of (he-didn't-even-know-what) alcohol in his left hand.

His plan had been a complete and utter disaster. He had failed. Where there should have been a warm, beautiful (and preferably half-naked) body lying next to him, there was only a half-eaten box of chocolates (the same box from his botched confession) and a stack of Jane Austin movies.

He was currently re-watching _Pride and Prejudice_ for the fifth time that day.

While England had done a pretty bang up job _playing_ the drunken fool earlier in order to save face, he had wasted no time in making the act a reality. Taking another swig from his bottle, England glared accusingly at Keira Knightley.

Why didn’t anything in real life ever play out like it did in novels and films? (The story of Darcy and Elizabeth was all about misconceptions too, and he _got_ the girl in the end, didn't he?) Hell, England’s life wasn't even agreeable by real-life standards. He'd been pining for _hundreds_ of years. Did that not count for something?

Apparently not.

Still, he couldn't give up. He was the British Empire! Once he set his mind on a conquest, he did not rest until he had achieved his goal (and plundered his "booty" he thought with a drunken giggle). He couldn't go on like he had before. Everyday his need to have America at his side seemed to grow. America was like oxygen. He couldn't _breathe_ without him.

But how to tell him.

With a huff and swig, England watched as Elizabeth and Jane began discussing Bingley's latest letter…

And then it clicked. A letter. A _letter._

It was perfect, _ingenious_. A love letter was a small gesture, completely within England's capability to pull off, yet it fit perfectly into the American romantic ideal. He could be as open with his passion as he wanted. Even the ever-dense America couldn't mistake England’s meaning when he had it before him in writing.

Perhaps if he had been of a more sober mind, England would have realised the folly of this plan. But in his alcohol-induced state, nothing seemed more brilliant.

With a cry of triumph, England leapt up from the bed and hurried to the writing desk in the corner. Pulling out a ball-point pen, he stared at the fresh sheaf of paper in front of him. Now, how to begin…

Dear America? (Boring).

Dear Alfred? (Not much better).

Dearest America? (Far too sappy).

My beloved? (England openly cringed).

And then, it came to him.

_Dear Git_

Perfect.

\---

That night, England stumbled into the deserted conference room and set the letter down at America's seat.

Now all he could do was wait for morning

\---

Japan had been having a good morning. He had adjusted fairly well to the time difference between America and his own home (having arrived a few days early in order to sleep off his jet lag). After bathing and performing a few yogic stretches, Japan had wonderful breakfast (he had a weakness for cinnamon rolls) and headed off to the Conference.

He arrived a few minutes early and, unsurprisingly, saw Germany standing by the doorway. He greeted the other with a small, polite bow. "Good morning Germany, are you feeling well today?"

Germany grunted in response, turning to face him. It was only then that Japan noticed another person standing beside Germany. Well, really, trying to stand _on_ Germany. Somehow, Italy had managed to twine both his arms and one of his legs around Germany's middle.

"Ve~ Japan! Good morning!" Italy chirped with a smile.

"Hai, good morning Italy-kun." Japan said, averting his eyes with a hot blush spreading across his cheeks.

He would never quite understand the mannerisms of Westerners.

The three entered the conference room, Japan noting, with some relief, that there was no abundance of flowers dangling from the ceiling. He silently hoped that England was feeling better and would not be too embarrassed by his actions of the previous day.

He waved goodbye to Italy and Germany before heading to his seat at the opposite side of the table next to Switzerland. As he approached, however, Japan noticed something lying on the table top in front of his seat: a small white envelope with the single word "Arthur" printed neatly across the back.

How very odd indeed…

\---

"Bollocks, bollocks, _bollocks!"_ England cursed under his breath as he half-ran towards the Conference Room doors. He had been so plastered the night before he'd forgotten to set his alarm and now was running five minutes late. Not that most of their meetings ever started on time, but England did not want to miss the moment when America finally received his letter.

But as he flung open the doors to the room, he nearly ran head-long into Japan. "Oh dear, I'm so sorry Japan." England apologized hurriedly, glancing over the shorter man's shoulder just long enough to note that America had not yet arrived. Good. "Are you alright?"

"I am fine, England-san," Japan murmured quietly. England frowned slightly at him. Japan seemed to be very agitated. His pale cheeks were flushed and his hands seemed to be trembling.

Wait, what was that he was holding…

"Umm, England-san, there is no easy way for me to say this," Japan was fidgeting, avoiding England's gaze. "I am sorry, but I cannot accept your feelings!" he practically shouted, bowing low and proffering England's _(opened_ ) letter back to him with both hands.

First Russia, now Japan.

Oh bloody hell.

"Oh Japan, it's not what you think!" England squeaked, holding up his hands in a sign of surrender. "I mean, it is what it says, but it's not what it looks like! That is, the words are true but they aren't- oh blimey how do I say this…"

Japan had straightened slightly from his bow, brows furrowed in confusion. "England –san, I don't-"

But he was cut off as a knife came hurtling through the air between them and buried itself in the far wall.

"I'LL TEACH YOU A LESSON FOR LAYING YOUR FILTHY HANDS ON MY BROTHER YOU BRITISH WHORE!"

Ah yes, Belarus. It seemed Russia's revenge had come after all.

"Sorry Japan, but I really must run. Homicidal knife-throwing women with brother-complexes and all that. See you tomorrow?"

And then he was gone, faster than Italy from an approaching army.

Because hell hath _no_ fury like a woman scorned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …or in the case, insane and in a close proximity to sharp objects. Russian revenge=loosing the hounds. 'Cus he's too boss to do it himself. ^J^
> 
> Thanks for reading! And remember, every time you don't leave feedback another person forgets about Canada.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OPERATION: "British Seduction"  
> STATUS: Stratagem "Bravo" failure  
> REASSESS--> Mission upgrade  
> STRATAGEM: "Charlie"  
> COMMENCE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Japan is more likely to give up salt than I am to own Hetalia.

 

_Chapter 3: Stratagem "Charlie"_

England was _not_ hiding.

He was definitely _not_ crouched like a small child behind a potted bush of chrysanthemums outside the conference building. He most certainly did _not_ have his face buried in his knees and his hands wrapped protectively around the top of his head like a participant in an inclement weather drill. There was absolutely _no_ way that he was shaking like a leaf and whimpering at the slightest provocation.

Nope. Not possible.

…England hated his life.

"Uh…what are you doing?"

England did not _squeal_ like a young girl. (He might have _gasped_ slightly in surprise, but that was neither here nor there). His head jerked upwards, horrified eyes searching frantically for the slightest hint of a lacy cuff or wild midnight eyes…

Only to come face to face with an angel.

Or America.

Same difference, really.

Shooting up to his feet faster than should be humanly possible, England straightened out the folds of his slightly ripped coat (Belarus had rather fantastic aim), and coughed nervously. "Nothing, dear boy, just admiring these flowers"

"But your eyes were closed…"

"Your point being?"

"…You can't look at something if your eyes are closed."

"And what makes you think I simply wanted to look at the flowers? I was attempting to experience them with all my senses, hearing, touch, smell, taste-"

"…So you were sitting here _eating_ flowers?"

"NO YOU BLOODY MORON, I WASN'T-"

America cut him off with a shake of his head. "Whatever floats your boat, dude." He put his hands up in a gesture of surrender, smirking derisively.

( _That idiotic, muscle-brained, overweight, arrogant, obnoxious son of a-_ )

"Anyway, I was looking for you. I wanted to know if you'd be cool with watchin' some baseball with me."

Wait, America had been _looking_ for him. America had _deliberately_ sought him out. America wanted to _spend time_ with him. Of his own free will. Just the two of them. Together. _Alone._

Wow, it was hot in here.

Blushing furiously and pulling at the suddenly suffocating collar of his shirt, England looked hurriedly away from America's expectant gaze. "Why of course, I mean…um, that is to say...I would quite enjoy…well…" he stammered uselessly, toeing the ground. (Was he a ruddy mute? Why the _hell_ was it suddenly impossible to compose a coherent sentence?)

"Calm down man, it's not rocket science." America placed a jovial hand upon England's shoulder (and oh God America was _touching him)_ "Yes or no? Yay or nay? However you Brits say it."

How the bleeding hell did America expect him to give an intelligible thought when he was _touching_ him and _smiling_ like that? " _Yes_ ," England finally ground out, his heart hammering madly in his chest like he'd just agreed "to have and to hold" America forever, rather than just observe a sporting event with him (though he certainly would not have said no to the former).

"Great!" America chirped happily, the hand on England's shoulder clapping down jovially before retracting (but oh if he would leave it there, _just a little longer_ ). "Wanna head over there now?"

England was pulled out of his revelry (currently admiring the soft curve of America's neck) to frown at the other in confusion. "Head over to where? Are we not going to your house?"

"Nah man, I got tickets! We're gonna go watch the Nationals live!" America rummaged around in his pocket before producing two nearly identical slips of paper, grinning widely.

So it would be just the two of them anda couple hundred others.

England tried not to let his mood be dampened. It would still be him and America going together. Just the two of them. In a public setting. Like a _date_ …

_Bloody hell this room was a furnace!_

Trying hide his to blush and not choke all at the same time, England forced a smile and tried to look neutrally pleased with the turn of events. With his flush and the tension at the corners of his mouth it looked more like constipation. "Wonderful. Lead the way."

America crowed, taking England's hand ( _deargodtheywere **holdinghands**_ ), and turning in the direction of the parking lot. "Alright! Just follow the hero!"

\---

_I could most certainly get used to this_ , England thought as he sat on a crowded city bus. America had insisted they use public transportation ("The _environment,_ man!"), but England could care less that the seats were probably riddled with staph and that the people were rude and standing uncomfortably close because America was sitting _next_ to him, the taller blond pressed snugly against his side due to the bus' maximum occupancy. Every time the vehicle hit a bump or snag in the pavement, America would lean further against him, his heady smell enveloping England like a warm blanket, their thighs occasionally brushing…

(Japan would probably die of blood loss if he knew the things England was thinking.)

Besides the contact, America kept up a steady flow of conversation. They bickered about the merits of cricket versus baseball and whether or not football (the horrible America version) had supplanted the latter as the true "Great American Pastime" (It's my pastime, isn't it? I'm the one who gets to decide). And for once England didn't care that America was insulting his culture (though the git's pansy-padded "pig-skin" game was no match for a real man's sport like rugby), content to simply enjoy the brash warmth of his voice, to admire the animated light that glinted behind his lenses as defended the " _real_ kind of football".

It was a shame, really, when the ride came to a close. But England consoled himself with the knowledge that it would be just him and America at the game. Perhaps they might share a plate of crisps… _they would both reach for it at the same moment, their fingers would brush and America would suddenly meet his eyes, leaning forward to—_

England's fantasy was abruptly ended as he ran smack into something solid and distinctively chest-like.

"Ah! Watch your step rosbif! You wrinkled ma chemise!"

(Oh no. Not that. Anything but _that_ …)

"Oh yeah Iggy, I invited France and…um…"

" _Canada_."

"Right! That guy! I invited them too. I had four tickets so I thought, why not? Hope ya don't mind."

It was at that moment that England realised God had forsaken him.

\---

"- AND THE HOME OF THE BRAVE!"

The stadium burst into cheers, people applauding the performer loudly and pulling on the caps they had discarded while the national anthem was sung. Beside England, America was screaming wildly, all sense of propriety seemingly abandoned (well…he _was_ America). "Man that was awesome!" he yelled, turning bright eyes on his two companions (he could have sworn someone else was supposed to be there, but he couldn't remember at the moment…)."My anthem is the _best_ , hands down!"

"I would have to disagree, Amérique. Nothing can beat _La Marseillais._ "

"Dude, your song is all about blood and death. How is that cool?"

"And wasn't your 'Star-Spangled Banner' written at the conclusion of a battle?"

"That's totally different man! Mine is all about bravery and perseverance! The true America spirit!"

England sunk deeper in his seat, attempting to ignore the two obnoxious blonds squabbling across him. By some stroke of hideous misfortune, his assigned seat had landed him between America and France, and while the former had made him giddy, the latter made him want to curl up in a very dark corner and waste away.

" _Um, my anthem can be sung in two different languages_."

"Hey France, did you hear something?"

"I did! Mon dieu, what was that?"

"Dude, it's a ghost! England hold me!"

Before England could do more than splutter and turn a violent shade of red, America's attention was diverted as the ceremonial first pitch was thrown and the game officially began (damn it all!)

England neither understood nor cared for the intricacie _s_ baseball, and as America became more and more enraptured, England allowed his mind to wander (mainly to the delectable skin between America's neck and collar bone and exactly what he'd like to do to it…)"

"Either the meaning of life is inscribed on dear Amérique's skin, or you are having some unholy thoughts, Angleterre."

England jumped, whirling around to glare at the smirking Frenchman. "I have absolutely no idea what perverted delusions you are suffering from _frog_ , but keep them to yourself." He hissed under his breath, sending a covert glance in America's direction to check if he had noticed anything out the ordinary. The idiot was oblivious as always (and was yelling something rather profane at the umpire).

France laughed, swinging an arm around England's shoulders which he tried to fling off to no avail. "Get your greasy paws off or me!" he growled, trying to be intimidating without drawing America's attention. "I don't want to catch your warts."

"Oh, a frog joke. I must say, you are getting more and more original but the day."

"Can it you wanker!"

"Only when you admit to having just mentally-molested your former charge."

"I will not admit to blatant lies. Now kindly release me before I break your arm off!" England tried to jerk away again, but France only clutched him tighter (surely he would conduct some kind of STD from having been in physical contact with the frog for this long).

" _Please you two, calm down. You're starting to make a scene_?"

"Did you just say something cheese-monkey?"

"Non, but I was just thinking about how repressed you must be. Waiting around for someone as oblivious as Amérique to catch on. Surely you must quite the case of boules bleues now?"

"That's it!" In less than two seconds flat, England was on top of France, trying to beat the blasted smirk off his god-awful face.

"Dude! Iggy! France! You guys better knock it off before you get us thrown out."

Really, it was amazing how America could pull the two flailing nations apart as easily as ripping paper in half. Amazing and absolutely _terrifying_.

"Now," he said, setting them down (when in the holy hell had he _picked them up_ in the first place?) and turning the two to face one another. "What do you say?"

England stared at America incredulously. "No, I will say no such thing. I will not be dictated to like some child!"

"Oui, Amérique. This rosbif is hardly worth my kind words anyway."

"Either you two apologize to each other or I post those pictures from last year's Christmas party on Facebook." Both nations went deathly pale at the same moment. "You wouldn't," England gasped, his throat going dry.

America smirked. "Try me."

England glared and America glared right back, taking a cool slip of his ridiculously sized cola as he did so. Emerald green and sky blue remained locked in a deadly battle. Neither moved. Neither blinked.

Finally England relented, turning to France with a look of utter disgust etched into every line of his face. "I'm only doing this to protect my own dignity!" Shredding whatever ounce of self-respect he had left, England grown out a very terse " _Sorry_ ".

France huffed, twirling a strand of his hair agitatedly between his fingers. "Oui, désolé".

"There you two, was that so hard?" America beamed, leaning down to sweep the other two nations into a rib-shattering hug.

England punched him. (Then screamed because he was fairly certain he had just broken his hand).

\---

It was at the end of an "inning" that England saw it. He'd been having a very silent peanut-throwing war with France when the large screen on the field (which had thus far been showing advertisements and the score) switched to a live feed of the crowd. "Hey America, what's going on?" he asked, nudging the nation who was currently gorging his face with nachos.

"Oh that?" America swallowed thickly. "That's just the 'Kiss Cam'."

"Kiss Cam?"

"Yeah, watch." America pointed back up to the screen, now displaying a blushing young man and woman. Their figures where surrounded on the screen by little cartoon hearts. _What on earth…?_ The entire crowd seemed to have taken notice of this fact and was now chanting "Do it, do it, do it" in discordant unison. America joined in, banging his fists on his knees in time with the words and laughing.

The two on the screen were both awfully red, looking anywhere but at each other. Finally, the boy took a deep breath as though summoning up his courage. He turned to the girl, tilted her chin towards him and…and _kissed_ her?

England went a very bright shade of red as the rest of the crowd erupted into cheers. America clapped and laughed along with the rest as the couple broke apart and waved at the camera. Their image remained on screen for a few more moments before an advertisement for car insurance flickered to life in its place.

"What was _that_?" England hissed. Beside him, France was wolf-whistling, calling for an encore. On the other side of France, Canada (how long had he been there?) was giggling softly, petting the bear in his lap.

"I already told you, that was the 'Kiss Cam'." America was still chuckling slightly. "They pan around the crowd at the change of every inning. Whoever the camera lands on has to kiss. It's pretty funny, actually."

"What a strange custom." England murmured. "I would never think that such an embarrassing-"

And then England stopped, eyes going wide.

England had a wonderful, awful idea…

\---

England slipped back into his seat, trying to hide the wide grin threatening to take over his face. He was a genius. There was absolutely no way that this plan could fail.

He glanced up at the play on the field: two outs, two strikes and not a single runner on base. Looked like the end of the inning was coming. England tried to ignore the nervous butterflies flittering around the inside of his stomach. This was it. There was no turning back now. All it had taken was an excuse to go to the loo, a quick pop into the press box, a small bribe to the camera operator, and his and America's seat numbers.

And now America would be his. He tried to imagine what those luscious lips would feel like presses against his own… (bloody fantastic). He shivered, inching imperceptibly closer to America as the batter struck out.

This was it. Oh God, this was really happening.

As the players moved off the field, the "big screen" switched from a fast-food advertisement to a live feed of the crowd. England's fingernails dug into the plastic seating beneath him. Sweat broke out on his brow. One single thought kept playing through England's head like a mantra.

America. America. _America._

The boy wasn't paying attention to the screen, preoccupied as he was to his new soft pretzel. But now their section of seating was being featured. He could just make out four heads of blond hair amongst the sea of fans.

The camera began to pan in.

_This was real. This was happening._

Closer and closer now, narrowing in on three rows of seats.

America glanced up, eyes wide.

_Oh God._

Two rows.

_Here it is._

England blinked up at his own face, framed neatly by little cartoon hearts and accompanied by-

_France!_

On-screen France gave him a seductive wink. His horrible, stubbled face inched closer. "It is tradition, non?"

_Oh no, oh no, oh dear sweet merciful baby Jesus no!_

And before England had a chance to scream or run (or deck the _hell_ out of that smarmy face), France was kissing him.

Full on, mouth-to-mouth contact.

With tongue.

Fuck his life and all things in it.

_I'm going to get warts in my mouth._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Threw in a (not-at-all) subtle movie quote in there for y'all to find. (;
> 
> Thanks for reading! And remember, every time you neglect to give feedback Prussia loses one 'awesome-point'.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OPERATION: "British Seduction"  
> STATUS: Stratagem "Charlie" failure  
> REASSESS--> Mission upgrade  
> STRATAGEM: "Delta"  
> COMMENCE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: It'll be a cold day in Hell and a scorching day in Russia before I own Hetalia.

_Chapter 4: Stratagem Delta_

England had managed to get it down to a perfect rhythm: vomit, then spit, then gargle ungodly amounts of Listerine, curse everything to high heaven, then spit once more.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

He'd been up to this routine for a good ten minutes now (the acid in his throat stinging rather horribly), and he still could not rid himself of the horridness that was France. That cheap perfume smell, that blasted stubble, that slimy, god-awful, unnaturally long tongue-

England vomited again.

He was positive that the traumatic French-ness of it all would never leave him. The entire ordeal would be seared into his memory for years to come, playing over and over again every time he closed his eyes. He fought back tears. He was a man, damn it. Men did not cry just because they'd had their mouth assaulted by disgusting frog lips . On camera. In the sight of thousands of people. _And_ their one true love.

(That was _not_ a whimper. England's lower lip was _not_ trembling.)

The crowd had been in for more than a treat than they bargained for. After having France's lips on his own for less than a second (though it was still the most traumatizing half-second of his life), England had upper-cutted the bastard square on the jaw. The fight that had ensued was probably the most cutthroat England had been in since he'd retired from pirating. He had managed to give the blasted frog two black eyes and what appeared to be a bruised rib before France could even lift up his hands to defend himself. (France was a nation; he could deal with the pain. Smarmy git would be healed by tomorrow anyway).

The image of the two of them attempting to kill each other while framed by little cartoon hearts on the big screen would probably have been hysterical if England hadn't been so intent on ripping France a knew arsehole. (And he would have succeeded too, if America and Canada hadn't pulled them apart).

It had taken a lot of smooth talking on America's part (combined with their status of "visiting diplomats") to keep the security guards from hauling them off to the nearest holding cell. (Which was all very well because England had been about to roundhouse kick the next person who touched him back into the dark ages.)

England groaned at his reflection. The frog had been able to land a few good hits. A large purple bruise was spreading across his right cheek, and his nose was still bleeding slightly. With a grimace, he realised his lips were still swollen from kissing. England held back his gag. His stomach was empty now anyway.

With a sigh, he ran the tap for a few more minutes, allowing the remnants of his "ritual" to wash away. France's kiss (sick as it was) was not even the worst part of the ordeal. England's heart clenched as he remembered the way America had looked as he pulled him off of the frog. The git had been laughing. _Laughing_. As though the whole thing was one-big-Frenchy- joke.

America had not been the slightest bit affected by England being kissed. And England was well aware that if the situation had been reversed, if it had been _America_ under attack from that hormonal pervert, _he_ would have wasted no time in tearing the two apart and teaching France just what happened to those who messed with the property of a the British Empire. But America had not seemed angry or evenly mildly disturbed. He'd been so _amused_ by it all.

But then, England had every reason to be possessive didn't he? He was in _love_ with America. And the fact that America wasn't perturbed in the slightest could only mean…England shook his head, dispelling the unpleasant thoughts. He would not allow himself to think along those lines.

He was going get America. Even if he had to beat his meaning into the idiot's thick skull.

Because there was nothing, absolutely _nothing_ , in this world more important to him.

\---

England sat alone in his hotel room, crumpling another sheet of paper and throwing it towards the (already overflowing) dust bin. He'd been sitting in the same spot for several hours, going over and over various strategies, each more ridiculous than the next. He had skipped the meeting, not really sure that he would be able to restrain himself if stuck within close proximity to France at the moment.

He needed a plan, something that America would find completely irresistible. Something that would have the blond practically flying into his arms (and perhaps into his bed…)

But England digressed. He couldn't think about the _after_ if he had no idea what he would do _before_.

He had tried sappily romantic, with the flowers and chocolate. He'd attempted to be sentimental with the letter. He'd gone for a good ol' slice of Americana with the "Kiss Cam".

Nothing had worked. But what else was there?

America… _America._ What could England do to catch his eye?

America was bold and daring. He was wild, untamed and so very full of _life_. He was honey and sky and light and everything in between.

He was just so bloody _beautiful_.

And then it came to him.

It was so simple. So elegant.

It had been a long while since he'd picked up his old guitar.

\---

England was pacing frantically, checking his watch every couple of minutes. He'd been told, by a stammering and extremely red Japan (he really should clear that situation up, shouldn't he) that the members of G8 were gathering in a few minutes to iron out the details for their next meeting. He'd been at the destined arrival point for an hour, determined to intercept America before it began. He didn't want to go gallivanting right into the lad’s home. It seemed a shade desperate (Even though he was already quite desperate, but that was beside the point).

England fiddled with the collar of his shirt, smoothed out his tie, attempted to flatten his hair (a lost cause if ever he had seen one) and re-tied his shoe laces. Twice. (He was not nervous. Nope. Not at all).

England hummed softly to himself, fingers twitching in an imitation of the cords he would need to play. This had to work. It had to.

He didn't know what he would do if it didn't.

Suddenly, he saw a familiar blond head appear at the end of the hall, one with a single strand glossy hair which refused to lay flat with the others. England felt himself smiling, despite himself. For once America was, blessedly, alone.

He took a deep breath. This was it.

He strode forward, seizing America by the arm before the boy had time to do more than utter a surprised "England?"

"Come with me." He whispered, turning and beginning to half-drag the boy behind him. America was tripping over his own feet, brows furrowed in confusion.

"England, what…?"

"America, for once in your bloody life could you just keep your mouth closed!"

"But I-"

England silenced the boy as he pushed him down into a chair. "Stay." He turned around and reached for the black case sitting in the corner. He smiled as his eyes ran over the various stamps and stickers lining its outside. He flipped the lid open, allowing his fingers to ghost delicately over the old wood surface of the instrument. It was his old Gibson J-160E, an acoustic with an electric pick up in the fret board. He'd bought it during the Beatles mania, wanting to emulate Lennon (silly as it was for a nation to want to be like a human).

It was the perfect instrument for this performance, because it was from a time when his and America's cultures had become virtually intertwined. For the first time in centuries, they had had something they could both bond over, something which they _shared_.

He delicately pulled the guitar from its casing before turning around to meet America's confused gaze. "Do you remember?" he strummed the strings lightly, letting the warmth of the cord resonate throughout the stillness of the room.

The crease between America's brows only deepened.

England's fingers shifted to their rehearsed positions. He had been practicing all day for this. He was a little rusty from years of neglect, but the skill of decades ago had never quite been forgotten. "Let me remind you, then."

Strumming out the first cord, England opened his mouth to sing. It wasn't a complete replica of the original song because England wanted to convey _his_ feelings and _his_ love for America through it.

" _Oh beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain_ "

England allowed his voice to linger ever so slightly on 'skies' and 'amber' _. (Like the blue of his eyes, the gold of his hair)_

" _For purple mountain majesties, above the fruited plain"_

He drew out 'majesty', crescendoing into 'above'. _(Like the grandeur of his heart, the life that thrived within his every action)_

" _America, America, God shed his grace on thee_ "

England glanced up, green eyes locking on America's face, and was surprised to see that the younger nation was blushing madly. ( _His name, his name, like a prayer_ )

" _And crown thy good, with brotherhood_ "

Their eyes locked, England's green gaze imploring. ( _Realise how wonderful I think you are. Know how much you mean to me_.)

" _From sea to shining sea_ "

England shifted his fingers, transitioning keys and adding a slight retard as he sung the last words to his version of the tune. ( _Please listen. Please know.)_

" _God bless America…Land that I love…"_

He drew out the last two words, savoring the feel of each as they slipped past his lips. America had to understand, he had to know.

England tried to capture America's gaze, silently begging for confirmation, but the boy's eyes remained resolutely fixed on the carpet below.

The face that England so adored was almost violently red. America's fingers were fumbling nervously with the seam of his blazer. A slight frown tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Um, that was beautiful England, but," and when he finally looked up to meet his gaze, England knew something was terribly, _horribly_ wrong.

"I'm Canada."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, the song is a slight mixture of "America the Beautiful" and "God Bless America"-- because I feel like it. (;
> 
> Thank you for reading! And remember, every time you don't leave feedback Greece has to give up a baby kitten.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OPERATION: "British Seduction"  
> STATUS: Stratagem "Delta" failure  
> REASSESS--> Mission upgrade  
> STRATAGEM: "Echo"  
> COMMENCE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sealand is more likely to be recognized as a nation than I am to own Hetalia.

_Chapter 5: Stratagem Echo_

"…England?"

_(I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts~)_

"England, are you alright?"

_(There they are, all standing in a row~)_

"Look, I'm sorry."

_(Big ones, small ones~)_

"Hey Canadia, what's goin' on?"

_(Some as big as your head~)_

"I have no idea. England's just been standing there for the past ten minutes drooling. I don't think he's blinked."

_(Give them a twist~)_

"Really? Weird. Yo, Iggy! Earth to eyebrows!"

_(A flick of the wrist~)_

"…He's really out of it, isn't he?"

"Yep."

_(That's what the showman said~!)_

"Wanna go get some ice cream?"

"Sure."

\---

So, England was having a bit of an existential crisis. And pounding his head into the nearest wall. Vigorously. Who knew that bashing your own skull in could be such a relaxing pastime? Why didn't he do this more often?

Oh, that’s right, because it wasn't sane. Figures. Anything worth doing never was. Still, he might as well beat his brains out rather than focus on the alternative. (Which would, of course, mean actually _acknowledging_ that his latest attempt at wooing had resulted in failure of the acutest kind. Yeah, like he'd do that.) He whacked his skull into the wall a few more times and then kicked it for good measure. What a productive afternoon it had been!

"England-san! Stop, you are going to hurt yourself!"

England glanced up at the mention of his name, turning to face his speaker with an eerily-sunny smile (completely alright with the trickle of blood that oozed down from the split skin of his forehead). "Oh Japan, how are you? Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?"

Outside there was a loud clap of thunder immediately followed by a sudden deluge of rain.

"…Not really."

England continued to smile pleasantly.

"England-san, you are dripping on the carpet…"

"Oh am I?" England laughed, looking down at the (rather large) puddle of blood collecting at his feet. "Silly me. But a man's got to bleed when a man's got to bleed, am I right?" He jovially elbowed Japan in the side, nearly sending the poor fellow sprawling. (But really, was it so hard to stand straight? He would have thought _Japan_ of all people would be more cultured than this.)

Japan grabbed his arm to keep from falling, stuttering apologies in both his native tongue and in English and blushing madly. England waved him off. "S'aright, now, what can I do for you my good sir?"

The smaller nation nodded curtly, adjusting the sleeves of his coat before returning England's gaze. "I was merely wondering what was wrong. You seemed… _preoccupied_. You were staring at the wall for the entirety of the meeting. I left late because I was helping Germany-san put away the electrical equipment, and you were still here."

He glanced briefly up towards England's (still freely bleeding) brow and said "May I inquire as to why you were hitting your head against the wall?"

"Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Lady life and all her lurid schemes. "He picked a kerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed delicately at some of the blood. "Sometimes, I wish I really did have a coconut, you know?"

"…I really do not."

(What a funny little man Japan was. How had England never noticed before?)

"Anyway, dear fellow, no hard feelings about that letter?" England might as well clear the air now while Japan was in front of him (and he still remembered) "Water under the bridge? Over the dam? Over the river and through the woods? To grandmother's house we shall go, eh?"

"…I do not…?"

"Look, that letter was not meant for you but somebody else. I must have mixed the seats up by mistake." He (conveniently) left out the bit about him been drunk off his arse. After all, what Japan didn't know wouldn't hurt international trade relations.

"Oh," Japan's ears went a very dark red. "England-san, if I may be so bold, was that letter meant to address America-san?"

And now it was England's turn to flush crimson. "What? Why would I like a bloody arrogant prick like that buffoon? What on earth would give you that idea?" (Damn Japan. Damn him and his atmosphere-reading telepathy. It was like he was a ninja or something…)

"Well, it was addressed 'Dear Git'."

Ah yes, he'd forgotten about that. Huh.

England pulled at his collar, a wry smile tugging at the edges of his mouth and a deep blush coating his ears and neck. "Is it really that obvious?"

"In retrospect, almost glaringly so."

"Ah."

Silence. England let out a huff of air, his early hysteria seeming to fade away. He wiped the rest of the blood from his face and tossed the ruined kerchief into the bin in the corner. "If it's so bleedin' obvious, then why can't that wanker take a hint?" He crumpled, falling into the chair behind him as the full weight of his ( _complete, utter and inevitable_ ) failure came crashing down on top of him.

"It's no use. No matter what I try, what I do, everything only seems to blow up in my face." (Sometimes literally. Damn France.) He cupped his chin in his palm and rested his elbow on his knee, looking over at Japan with blank eyes. "What's the point? He'll never notice, blasted fool that he is."

Japan stood still for a few moments, looking at England with unfathomable eyes. He took a step forward. "England-san, I am truly sorry about this."

And then Japan slapped him.

Right across the face.

England stood stock-still for about a millisecond. And then he felt it. "Ow ow _ow_ what in the bleedin' Christ did you do that for? What the hell are you playing at? Japan, what the fuck is this, I don't even-"

He trailed off, clutching his (fucking _burning_ ) cheek protectively with one hand, and spewing expletives that would make a sailor cry.

"England-san!" Japan cut him off, arms crossed and usually soft gaze unnaturally hard. "Do you love America-san?"

( _Jesus bloody Christ it was hot in here_ ).

England coughed. "Why would you even ask such a thing? Of course I ruddy love him. Why the blazes would I go through all this humiliation if I didn't love him?"

"And yet you are saying that _now_ he is no longer worth your effort?"

Oh. God, was that what he was saying? Did England really just imply that he was going to give up? On love. On _America_.

"I- well…I don't…" he kicked the ground with the toe of his boot, feeling for all the world like a pathetically small child.

"England-san, America-san is not one to recognize half-hearted feelings."

Half-hearted _. Half-hearted_?

"Japan, I will have you know that there is absolutely _nothing_ half-hearted about the way I feel about America!" He was breathing heavily, his face flushed. Of course America had his whole heart. Hell, if he had more than one heart to give, America could take it. He could have them all. It had to be _him_. It was America or no one.

And England was sick of being alone.

Japan's eyes softened, a small smile taking over his lips. "Then do not give up. Never give up, England-san. America may be… _difficult_ at times, but he is worth it. You have to know that."

(And then England suddenly remembered the War, and the pain, and the devastation, and the years and _years_ of rebuilding.)

If anyone knew about the value of waiting for America, it was Japan.

Suddenly, England was grinning too. It was a small thing, but it was a start. No matter how frustrated he was, no matter how hopeless the situation, there was no way that England could stop fighting for that (ignorant, arrogant, obnoxious, pea-brained, God damn _fantastic_ ) fool.

He wouldn't let himself.

"Thank you, Japan. That was," he rubbed at the spot on his face absentmindedly. "Surprisingly helpful."

The shorter nation was blushing to the roots of his hair. "Oh my, I just hit you. England-san, I am so sorry!" Concern etched every line in his brow. "I did not mean to offend. Sumimasen!" Japan almost cracked his head open on a couple of nearby chairs with the violence of his bowing.

"Really Japan, it was no trouble at all." (And that wasn't that a bloody lie if ever he told one.) "There's no need to make a fuss."

Japan straightened, his face still burning. "I am not sure what came over me." He averted his eyes for a moment before seeming to remember something. He reached into his breast pocket and produced a small, wrapped package. "Here, take this." He handed the parcel to England.

England fought the urge to shake it like a child. "What is it?" he inquired, making to undo the wrapping.

Japan held up a hand. "It is a blank puzzle. You write a message on the completed face then scramble it and give it to someone to solve." He smiled. "It is like a secret note, meant only for two."

England eyed the package with renewed interest, a sudden spark lighting behind his eyes. "Why thank you Japan. I, uh, have to run! Meetings to prepare for and all. Be seeing you, then."

And then he was gone, racing off towards the nearest pen he could find.

It would only be much later that he questioned exactly why Japan had been carrying something like that around with him in the first place.

How very odd indeed.

\---

When Japan walked back out into the hallway, he was met with Hungary's smiling face and a thumbs-up.

Oh, the things they did for doujinshi.

As the two nations walked off together, Hungary practically squealing with excitement, neither noticed the figure that moved in the corner, a manic glint appearing in its eye.

"I will teach them for keeping me out of the G8, aru!"

\---

England clutched the parcel protectively to his chest, glancing around every six seconds to check and see if America had arrived yet. Not that he really needed to. America always made his entrances fairly… _clear_. But still, England would make no mistakes this time. He was going to make sure that the person he handed this package to was America. He would accept no substitutes.

He glanced up when he heard the doors swing open accompanied by that familiar cry of "The HERO has arrived! Your lives may all officially begin!"

No body looked up to acknowledge America had said anything. They were all too used to it by now.

(The idiot's subsequent pout was as precious as it was petulant.)

America huffed a bit before laughing and flinging his arm around the nearest nation. Some blond fellow, but England couldn't really remember the bloke's name. Strange. He brushed off the anomaly, striding towards America with all the confidence his (absolutely in _no_ way _short_ ) stature could muster. He was going to do this, and by God it would be brilliant!

"America."

"The one and only! What can I do for ya, Iggles?"

Yes. It was definitely him.

"Here, this is just a little something I picked up for you." He handed the parcel over to America, figuring Japan wouldn't mind if he left his name out of the details.

"Oh really? Dude, that's awesome! My birthday isn't even for-" he stopped to count on his fingers "Five more months!" He began to tear at the wrapping with wild abandon. 'Dude, Iggy, you're like the best ever I swear!"

(America was complementing him! America was glad he was alive!)

England coughed, face unbearably hot. "It was nothing, really." (Quite literally nothing. He'd gotten it for free.)

America did away with the paper and pulled the lid off of the container "That still doesn't make it any less awesome that you got me…a bunch of ripped up paper?" America looked down at the puzzle, brow furrowed.

"It's not ruddy paper, you idiot! It's a puzzle!"

"A puzzle? What the crap is a hero supposed to do with a puzzle?"

England pinched the bridge of his nose. He would not scream, he would _not_ scream. "Well, I would suppose he'd bloody _solve_ it, now wouldn't he?"

America frowned, still looking down at the puzzle skeptically.

England so wanted to punch him. But he would restrain himself. He was a gentleman, and gentlemen did not punch their potential love interests until at least _after_ the second date.

"Look, there's a message written on it, okay? Solve the puzzle, read the message, savy?"

"Oh, dude that's so cool! It's like a spy mission or something!" This is totally boss! Thank you England!" Giving England a fleeting hug which made every single hair in his body stand at attention, America practically skipped away.

England smiled, touching the side of his cheek where their faces had brushed for the briefest of instants. He watched as America began to gab animatedly with, the nation sitting beside him, China of all people, blushing slightly. Of course, he didn't really care if the rest of the world knew about his love for America (both the nations and the people), but he wasn't quite sure how America would react to that kind of attention.

(But then he remembered America was an attention whore and decided he'd probably be fine).

\---

America still hadn't finished the puzzle by the time the meeting started. His brows kept furrowing, his tongue poking out from between his (delectable) lips as he carefully laid each piece down. England threw glances at him about every six seconds or so, desperate for the suspense to be over. It was killing him.

_I have to focus. I've already missed several meetings._ Forcing his gaze back to Germany's presentation about traffic control, England missed the look of elation that passed through America's eyes as he beheld the finished puzzle.

But, as he read the inscription, America's triumphant grin began to fall. A spark of anger flashed briefly in his eyes, but it was gone in the next second.

With a loud clatter, America stood up, a painful-looking grin stretching his face.

England whipped around, his eyes wide. The moment of truth had come.

Meeting his gaze, America's smile only widened. "Hahaha, drop dead England!" And then he stormed (good God the _floor was shaking_ ) from the room.

The entire room stood frozen for a moment before England jumped up and dashed over to America's seat, searching desperately for the puzzle he'd given America, the one detailing his complete and total unadulterated love-

Only to find a very different puzzle which read:

_Go choke on a hamburger. Coffee is for pussies._

England's entire body went cold.

Beside him, China flashed him the brightest smile England had ever seen on his face.

"Like it, Opium?"

If Shinatty-chan had been anywhere near, England would have set him on fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And remember, every time you don’t leave feedback a flying mint bunny loses its wings.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OPERATION: "British Seduction"  
> STATUS: Stratagem "Echo" failure  
> REASSESS--> Mission upgrade  
> STRATAGEM: "Foxtrot"  
> COMMENCE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Switzerland is more likely to break his neutrality than I am to own Hetalia.

_Chapter 6: Stratagem "Foxtrot"_

England took a deep breath. He would remain calm. He was in control of this situation. He was the God-damn-British-man. And he was a gentleman.

Smiling as peacefully as if China had just given him a basket of mini-muffins, England said "What a clever idea! I commend your use of situational irony!" He made sure to showcase each and every one of his pearly whites. "Now if you would just excuse me, there is some business that I must attend to."

The rest of the room remained surprisingly still and quiet as England leisurely pulled out his mobile and scrolled through his list of contacts. Finding the correct name, England hit 'call' and waited patiently as the dial tone sounded. The moment he heard a voice on the other end, England started speaking. "Yes. Hello, this is England. Yes, that one."

His (not at all bushy) brows furrowed for the briefest of moments before continuing. "Look, I believe there is someone here who forgot to inform you that we are in fact meeting today. Yes, I noticed your chair was empty." He shot a thumbs-up towards China's confused face. "Of course, I'll let him know. I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it. Your brother would never want you to miss out on important world affairs."

China's face suddenly went a very nice shade of green. "You wouldn't dare…" He hissed, beginning to stand.

England's smile turned feral as he mouthed 'Try me'. "Yes, of course. We look forward to your arrival." He took a step backwards as China advanced, eyes narrowed and breathing heavy. "Goodbye." England dropped the call just as China lunged for his mobile.

The two bodies collided, both tumbling to the ground. "What have you done? What have you done, aru?" China screamed, wrapping hands around England's neck and banging his head over and over again into the carpet.

England laughed manically. "An eye for an eye, dear fellow."

"Ve, Germany? I don't understand. What did England do?"

England smiled over in Italy's direction, completely fine with China's continued smashing of his skull. (He'd already built up an immunity to it the previous day, after all.) "Oh, I just invited a dear friend of China's over to play."

He smirked at the red-faced, panicked nation above him just as the door flew open.

"ANIKI!"

"You are dead to me." China hissed angrily in England's ear before diving under the meeting table.

A short young man stood in the doorway, eyes wide and hair-curl bouncing. "Aniki, where are you?" Korea dashed forward, jumping onto the conference table and peering desperately into the faces of all the seated nations. "Aniki! Come out! What did they do to you?" he lunged forward, grabbing the still thoroughly confused Italy by the collar. "Are you hiding him from me?"

Italy blinked, brows furrowing. "I don't understand… Ve~ What are you-" He was cut off as China tugged on the hem of his trousers beneath the table and mouthed ' _I'm not here'_.

Italy only smiled vaguely. "What are you talking about China? You're right next to me."

"Aniki?" Korea's eyes lightened as he dove for the edge of the table.

"No, aru!" China cried, scrabbling away as Korea's head poked under the edge of the table (right between Italy's legs). "I am not here! You are imagining things!"

"ANIKI!" Korea let out a cry of delight, diving beneath the table to grab at China's ankles. He missed and China scrambled away, screaming something in Mandarin that England was fairly certain was an insult directed at him. He scuttled out from underneath the table, swinging his wok wildly and throwing packets of dehydrated noodles at Korea.

"Stay away, aru!"

"No Aniki, I will possess your breasts!" Korea shouted as he finally managed to tackle the older nation to the ground.

"Stop groping me!"

"Never!"

"Aiyah! Don't touch that!"

England smiled to himself as he watched the scene unfold. _Ah brotherly love._ He chuckled softly as China spluttered and Korea attempted to undress him.

England took a pleasant sip of tea.

Revenge was sweet.

\---

England stood frozen, fist raised to knock but unable to go any farther. What was he doing? He couldn't do this. It wasn't possible. Every fiber of his being told him so (and his being was far too marvelous to ever be wrong).

The average, clear-headed person in his situation would realise that this plan had about an ice cube's chance in hell of actually succeeding. (And if they were intelligent, they would realise it was more like hell freezing over, thawing, then freezing again and opening an all-expenses paid ski lodge). But at the moment, England was neither intelligent nor clear-headed. He was desperate, so he had gone to the place where all desperate souls seemed to flock to in times of need.

France's hotel room.

Well, really he was standing _outside_ of France's hotel room attempting to pluck up the courage to ruddy _knock_ but that was irrelevant. He was still here, still seeking the frog's assistance—or at least trying to.

England hung his head. What shame he was about to bring upon his people...

But what other choice did he have? _America_. It was all for America. He had to keep repeating it to himself as he forced his fist forward, millimeter by millimeter. The moment his knuckled brushed the wood, England recoiled, actually jumping backwards as if burnt (which he probably was, damn French were all riddled with communicable diseases).

No, he had to persevere. ( _For America_.) He managed to drag his fist forward and place the softest of knocks upon France's door. (And of course the blasted frog would be staying in suite 69).

He waited on tenterhooks, fingers twiddling nervously. Breathe in. Breathe out. Nothing happened. (Smarmy bastard was probably being his usually frenchie self and ignoring the damn knock completely— arrogant prick that he was.) With a small intake of breath, England summed up his courage and knocked again, harder this time. Still no response.

Oh blast it all!

England pounded his fist violently against the door (much like America did when he actually decided to announce his arrival rather than blindly trouncing in). There were frantic voices on the other end followed by the rustle of clothing and the telltale sound of a fly being quickly fastened. England rolled his eyes and kicked the door. (Damn France and his damn French hormones).

The doorknob turned and very flushed and flustered France immerged, looking none too happy. (Served the git right for kissing him and insulting him and being, well, _France_ ). "What do you want _rosbif_? I am in the middle of very important _meeting_." He flipped his slightly sweaty hair and in an overly girly manner and narrowed his eyes. "Unless of course," his eye trailed over the full length of England's body "You would like to join us?"

He winked

England gaged.

"No chance in hell frog." He growled. "Now tell your _associate_ to kindly get the fuck out. We have business to discuss."

France took a step back, pressing the tips of his fingers to his chest and looking affronted. "And what could be of such importance that I would have to send my lovely _colleague_ away? She is très belle, unlike a certain people." He sneered down at England.

England ignored him. "I will give you ten seconds to send her away before I tell her about that ghastly mole you have on your-"

"You swore you would never speak of it!"

England smirked. "Times change."

France gave another girly huff and hair-flip before stalking back into his room, muttering "Putain bâtard Anglais ... sourcils broussailleux…!"

England smirked, listening to the soft whispers on the other side of the door as a woman's voice joined in the flow of French. It was only a moment before he heard a rather indignant cry from France, some pained spluttering, and then _Seychelles_ of all people immerged from the bedroom, looking beyond pissed. She shot (the very red-faced) England a disdainful glance before stalking off down the hallway, lop-sided pigtails bouncing huffily.

France reappeared in the doorway, clutching his reddening jaw and glaring at England. "This had better be important, Angleterre."

England coughed, deciding to leave the subject of Seychelles be for the moment. "It is. Very." He looked up, meeting France's gaze and trying to convey the desperation he felt. France seemed to consider him for a moment before beckoning England inside. "Coming to ask my assistance? Of your own free will? You must be desperate, mon ami. Though I must ask," and here he turned to look England straight in the face "What is troubling you so?"

England swallowed, for once unable to hold France's gaze. "It's America."

And that was all France needed to hear.

\---

England was choking. On flour. England was choking on flour and he was going to die and why the hell wasn't France doing anything to save him?

England coughed and spluttered, running over to the sink, sticking his head under the tap and gulping desperate amounts of water. He succeeded in flushing the flour from his throat, but inadvertently began choking on the water instead. After a few more moments of hacking and gagging, England managed to catch his breath. Bending over the basin and gasping heavily, he turned sharp eyes on the happily whistling and completely oblivious France who was kneading dough in the corner.

"What the bloody hell are you playing at? I almost _died_ you wanker, why didn't you help me?"

France gave a noncommittal shrug, lips curling into a playful smile. "With you gone, there would be two less horrendously neglected eyebrows to abuse the rest of the seeing world."

( _That God damn, flowery, addlebrained, pansy-ass, son of a_ -) England would remain calm. He would remain calm, damn it!

Taking a steadying breath, England turned away from the smirking ( _I'll beat that smile off his face with a dead poll cat_ ) France and trudged over to the part of the countertop where he'd been neatly flowering the baking pans. He couldn't kill France, at least not yet.

After they had finished their task, however, nothing was off the table.

As he delicately greased and powdered the trays, he thought back on his (disastrous) confession to America the previous day. He'd caught the boy in the hallway after the meeting, attempted to make amends and ended up with a cup of ( _fucking boiling_ ) coffee poured directly over his head.

Safe to say America definitely wasn't pleased with him.

Damn China.

England sighed, placing the trays down before grabbing a dish cloth and beginning to scrub at the dishes France had already discarded. He had needed to come up with a way to apologise to the bloody fool as well as (finally) convey his true feelings toward him.

And what did America love the most (apart from himself)? Food.

And who was the world's leading connoisseur of culinary arts? (Unfortunately) France.

England had considered asking some of the other cooking-competent countries for assistance, but he didn't know any of them well enough- except for perhaps Italy- to entangle them with his own (utterly failing) love life. (Besides, he had about two hundred years' worth of blackmail on the frog if the worst came to worst).

Yet, France had been surprisingly cooperative with the whole thing. The moment he had learned that England was "caught within the wild throws of _l'amour_ " he'd been willing to let bygones (temporarily) be bygones and assist him in latest confession attempt.

So they were making America a cake.

Well, really, France was making the cake as he refused to let England touch any of the ingredients ("The last time I saw you bake you managed to turn butter, milk and eggs into concrete! "). But England did not want France doing all the work or it would hardly be _his_ gift to America. In the end, they'd agreed England could decorate the confection after (and only _after_ ) France had made completely and utterly sure that it was completely beyond his power to "destroy".

(So England wasn't the greatest of cooks, but damn it he could draw!)

France had taken England's powdered trays and was now pouring creamy chocolate batter into them. (And England would not admit that it smelled bloody _heavenly_ ). The kitchen of France's extended-stay suite, though adequately stocked with both appliances and utensils, was extremely small. Needless to say that France, England and small, enclosed spaces did not mix.

"Stop flinging chocolate at me!"

"I am not _flinging_ anything at you!"

"Then why the bloody hell is my sleeve covered in chocolate?"

"Maybe you should stop being so careless and start paying attention to where you put your arms!"

"Maybe you should start paying attention to where you fling your batter!"

"Did you just splash water at me, _rosbif_?"

"I didn't mean to offend, I thought frogs loved water."

"Why you-!"

They were cut off as the oven chimed, announcing that the bottom tier was finished. France glared, flicking a pinch of flour in England's face before hurrying off to retrieve the cake. England glared at his back, unable to retaliate for fear of ruining the pasty.

(But that didn't stop him from pouring a glass of milk down France's shirt when his back was turned.)

\---

"Hold it steady!"

"Blast it all, what do you think I'm trying to do?"

"Well, it would seem like you are trying to drop it with the way you are continuing to let your end tilt downwards!"

England bit the inside of his mouth, trying desperately not to just let go of the bloody thing so he could reach over and strangle the life out of France's neck. (America. _America_.) He forced himself to remain calm, taking care to lift his end of the ridiculously heavy cake slightly higher.

It was ludicrous that they had manage to maneuver this cake down thirteen floors (granted they had been on an elevator) _and_ through a parking garage to England's rented vehicle, _and_ kept it from collapsing as they fought the rush hour traffic of downtown Washington D.C. (the drivers here were _psychotic_ ), but now the last few steps up America's damn front porch were going to ruin it all.

The thing itself was massive. Eight tiers each coated in a delicate layer of alternating red while and blue frosting (which England prided himself in having applied absolutely _flawlessly_ ) with three words written out gracefully in the center in golden icing, _I love you_.

It looked and (England grudgingly admitted) tasted bloody fantastic.

Now if only they could get it up the bleedin' stairs then they'd be home free.

England's breath caught in his throat as he felt his foot slip slightly on the edge of once of the stairs.

"Watch it Angletterre!"

"Shut up, you wanker, I know already!"

"Obviously you do not, otherwise it wouldn't be falling!"

"Shut your ruddy mouth before I shove my foot up your-!"

"ANGLETERRE!"

England hadn't been paying attention, so he didn't notice at first when his foot missed the next stair. It wasn't until both he, France, and the cake were tumbling forward, straight into America's door, that England realised his mistake.

But by then it was too late.

England and France hit the ground and their tower of confectionary glory wobbled, teetered and then tumbled forward. It was almost as if England was watching it all happen in slow motion, unable to do more than throw his hands up over his head as the icing cracked, the tiers crumpled, and the entire structure came crashing down. Right on top of him.

England and France sat frozen, covered from head to toe in chocolate, fondant and other sugary unmentionables. The red, white and blue frosting had mixed in the collapse, leaving England's torso and parts of his face a light lilac.

Slowly, France and England turned to face each other. France sighed, wiping a bit of icing from his eyes. "I should have expected nothing less from the most useless nation for love in all of Europe."

England's heart had gone cold, his entire world closing in around him, and France had had to go and say _that_.

This was war.

England threw his entire body over the decimated cake and onto France, who flailed and fell backwards. He grabbed France's frosting-smeared collar and shook him until his eyes were rolling back in their sockets. "You God damned frog! I'll rip out your bloody entrails, wrap them around you esophagus and when pull them tight until you choke on your own-!"

"England?"

The door was open. America was staring at him. Looking like a bloody fool. Covered in cake and icing. And straddling France. On America's front porch. For absolutely no adequately explained reason.

Brilliant. Bloody fucking brilliant.

Check please.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And remember, every time you don't leave feedback, Hungary loses a GerIta doujinshi. And lord knows that no one stands between Hungary and her doujinshi.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OPERATION: "British Seduction"  
> STATUS: Stratagem "Foxtrot" failure  
> REASSESS--> Mission upgrade  
> STRATAGEM: "Golf"  
> COMMENCE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: America is more likely to go vegan than I am to own Hetalia.

_Chapter 7: Stratagem Golf_

England looked at America, then back to France, then back to America, then back to France.

"This isn't what it looks like!" England's heart was sinking into his stomach as he watched America gazing pensively at him from the doorway.

"Really? Because it looks like you and France havin' a bitch fight in cake on my front porch."

_Oh God, this was the second time America had seen him in a compromising position with France in the past three days. England was screwed. America would never love him. He would die alone and unwanted and live underneath an abandoned bus and-!_

"But you're doing it all wrong.' America shook his head disappointedly. 'Everyone knows that a good cat-fight needs jello."

… _What?_

And then America was laughing. Full-blown, doubled-over, clutching-his-knees-and-pounding-his-fist-into-the-nearest-flat-surface howling. And then France was laughing too, standing up and clapping a frosting-coated arm around America's heaving shoulders. The two of them, arm and arm, one amazingly ridiculous, the other ridiculously amazing

And despite himself, England felt a small tug upwards at the corners of his mouth.

Then he punched both of them in the gut.

\---

One cake-ball fight and three aspirins later, France, America, and England were all sufficiently covered in cream filling, food coloring and moist chocolate cake.

And fighting desperately for use of the bath.

Well, really, it was just England and France fighting. America was behind them, laughing and throwing the occasional peanut in their direction. (Where in the bloody hell did he get peanuts anyway?)

"Move over you damn frog!" England elbowed France in the ribs

"Please, beauty before beast." France flicked England between the eyebrows.

"What was that you wanker?"

"The truth.”

"Bastard! The only beast in this room is your sex drive!"

"Angleterre, I'm touched!"

"That wasn't a complement!"

England threw a fist at France's head which missed and smashed (bloody fucking _painfully_ ) into America's wall. France took the opportunity to shove England aside and grab for the door handle. England slammed into an end-table, smearing cake everywhere before wheeling around to knee France in the stomach. France doubled over, pain and anger flaring in his eyes. "Angleterre, you leave me no choice."

"What-?" England started, only to be cut off as a France's shirt was flung over his head.

"Ah! Get it off!" He flailed about for a good minute before hurling the purple silk away. Breathing heavily, he looked up just in time to have his vision blocked by a pair of black slacks settling over his eyes."GetitoffgetitiofGETITOFF!" England howled, clawing at the garment as he felt every fiber of his being beginning to self-destruct because dear sweet God the crotch of France's pants was on his _fucking nose_!

England managed to dislodge himself from the trousers just in time to see the now nearly-naked France reaching for the waistband of his undergarments. "Bloody _hell_ you can have the bleedin' bath, just keep your pants on!" He was shielding his (poor, _poor_ ) eyes with one hand and debating slapping the other across America's (who was laughing harder than ever, arse).

"Merci beaucoup, Angleterre" the (still practically nude) France said with a sweeping brow, reaching out to kiss England's hand only to have it slap him instead.

With an indignant huff, France whirled about and strutted into the washroom.

England sagged against the wall, glaring daggers at America who was in stiches on the ground. "Man that was epic." He laughed, whipping at his eyes and managing to smear even more cake in across his cheek (a gesture which was certainly _not_ the most adorable thing England had ever seen).

He shot England a brilliant smile before bending down to gather France's discarded clothing. (England decided not to warn him against touching the frog's things. Ungrateful git deserved whatever STD he managed to contract). "You guys are hilarious. But you know," and here he looked England in the face, a blatant smirk curling at the edges of his mouth "I have _two_ bathrooms."

Before England could do more than splutter indignantly, the bathroom door flew open and a pair of briefs flew out, smacking America square in the face.

Served him right. Git.

\---

England emerged (blessedly clean) from America's shower to see a neatly folded pile of clothes waiting for him. He felt a small tug at the corner of his mouth but resisted it. (But oh how thoughtful of America to actually think about _his_ comfort and set aside garments for him to wear. America was _thinking_ about him. America _cared_! Oh fuck it, no one was even there!) England allowed a wide smile to spread across his entire face. He fingered the edges of the clothes before picking up the shirt—which was boldly embossed with "HOOTERS" in orange lettering—and inhaling deeply. (And oh _God_ it smelled like sunshine and coffee and leather and golden fields and running streams and _America_.)

_America_.

England trembled, slipping the shirt over his damp skin and allowing himself to be completely enveloped by the warmth of America's scent. (God there was something seriously wrong in his mind). Shaking his head, England pulled on the sweatpants which were brown and appeared to have a pattern of dancing Christmas bears down the right leg (that most certainly did not make England simper at the adorableness), before walking back out into the hall.

"America?" he called out, heading down the stairs towards the kitchen where he could make out the sound of voices.

"I will not wear that garish trash you Americans call clothing!"

"Not cool man! Everyone knows my clothes are awesome!"

"Awesomely horrendous"

"At least my shirts aren't pink"

" _Rose_ is a wonderful colour with which to express masculinity, but I would not expect _you_ to understand that. Besides, my shirt was lilac."

"What are you talking about bro? I'm the manliest guy you'll ever meet! I'm a hero! And what the hell is lilac anyway?"

"It is a shade of purple."

"Purple, pink, what's the big dif?"

England rounded the corner into the kitchen and caught a glimpse of both the bickering nations. He froze. His heart stopped beating for a moment before speeding forward at the most rapid pace it had ever taken up.

France stood, clothed in absolutely nothing but a towel wrapped (not nearly tight enough) around his waist. And while the sight of curly blond hairs trailing down from France's naval was nauseating, it wasn't what was capturing England's eye. Oh no, it wasn't _France_ at all, but the beautiful nation across from him. The beautiful, _shirtless_ nation across from him.

England just about had a heart attack.

God, America was beautiful.

Tanned skin pulled taught over rippling muscles (how the hell could someone eat so much junk food and not have an ounce of fat on them). Was England drooling? He wasn't sure anymore...

"-ggy? Iggy? Earth to England!"

England jerked out of his musings of America's ( _fantastic)_ abs as the boy waved a hand in front of his face. "So you are alive! Good. For a second there it seemed like you'd gone into a comma or something." He laughed (so wide and straight and beautiful). "So, are you two gonna tell me _why_ you were wrestling in cake on my front porch today, or should I just assume that's a regular thing for you guys?"

Shit. He he'd almost forgotten about that (in the wake of America's glorious torso).

England met France's gaze, the latter raising a questioning brow. "I was...well, we were..." He looked into those half-laughing eyes of blue and wished he could just _say it_ already. But now wasn't the right time.

"I was trying to apologise for that puzzle from yesterday. China he-" England shook his head, knowing that exposing China would mean exposing himself. "It was a poor joke. I'm sorry."

"And you thought cake-wrestling was the way to go?"

England's face went scarlet. "That wasn't the intention..."

America chuckled, ruffling his hair (England temporarily stopped breathing). "I have to say, I _was_ pretty pissed about the whole thing, but dude," he chuckled, slapping both France and England on the back. "That was so freaking funny. You're forgiven."

England let out the smallest of relieved breaths before realising that America's still naked side was pressed up against him.

"Why yes, well, I'm glad you're satisfied." he stuttered, pushing America away and smoothing out the imaginary creases in the shirt America had lent him.

"I don't know Angleterre," France said in a calm voice, though the glint in his eyes was mischievous.

England frowned at him. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Well, we made quite a mess, and Amerique was still kind enough to allow us to use his shower and provided us with um... _clothes_." France's voice dipped slightly with distain. "We must make it up to him." He put an arm around America's shoulder, smiling "Why don't we take you out for a drink tonight, _cheri_?"

England spluttered and America pumped his fist into the air. "Really? You guys are the best!" He pulled both England and France into one-armed hugs.

"Once your stuffs' done in the wash, we'll head out. Oh dude, we should totally call up Mattie!"

France quirked a brow. "Who?"

"You know," America said, waving his arms "That guy. The one above me? I think he has a bear or something..." He shrugged. "Ernyway, I'm gonna go call him. Man, this is gonna be so awesome!" He practically skipped out of the room.

The moment America was gone, England rounded on France, eyes wide and breathing heavy. “Just what the bloody hell was that about? Taking him out for drinks? What are you playing at?"

France smiled, sauntering over (still naked) and wrapping a jovial arm around England's shoulders. "Angleterre just think about it. You are nervous about your confession to Amerique, are you not?"

England blushed, looking pointedly away.

"See? Now, what better to give you courage than a little _liquor_? Nerves settle, confidence rises, inhibitions lower..." he shot England a cheeky grin "Who knows what kind of _things_ could happen..?"

England elbowed him weakly in the gut with a muttered "Pervert", but France did have a point. He just needed some liquid-luck. He loved America, and he wanted (needed) America to know that. And while a pub wasn't exactly the ideal location for a confession…with some dim lighting… a slight buzz... who knew?

Stranger things had happened.

\---

As always, England's best (and apparently even his worst) laid plans came crashing down around him.

It seemed that France had called Prussia and Spain in an attempt to "Distract focus so you and Amerique can be alone."

But the three were never the safest combination of characters—never mind the absolute hell that broke loose when they were within ten meters of alcohol. Prussia seemed to have told Germany about the gathering, so, of course, Italy found out and called Poland, who tweeted it and suddenly the whole world and their dog seemed to be crammed into the little pub America had chosen for the night. (And why in the holy hell did _everyone_ follow Poland on twitter anyway?)

Now, nations do not do well in cramped quarters, especially when in the proximity of other nations, and _particularly_ if alcohol is involved. England had never quite understood phrase "Hell on Earth" until now.

"Get away from my brother you potato-eating Bastard!"

"Ve~Romano! Put that tomato down!"

"Bruder stop drinking all the beer!"

"I'm too awesome to share this beer with you!"

"Romano~ I saw an empty room in the back. Why don't we..."

"Get the hell away from me Spain-bastard!"

"AIYAH! Japan, save me!"

"Yeah Japan-nii! I will possess both of your breasts!"

"Sumimasen China-san, I am busy at the moment..."

"Liet! This drink is like, totally awesome and super strong! You should try some!"

"I don't drink wine coolers, Poland."

"No, Lithuania would much rather drink some Vodka with me, da?"

"Um well..."

"Big brother! I have come to marry you!"

"Belarus is nuts, right France-pants?"

"What was that Seychelles? I was too distracted by the unimaginable beauty of your eyes to hear~"

"The more you drink, the worse your pick up lines get."

"Fine, you are not the only female in this room who could benefit from the gorgeousness that is moi!"

"France, you step any closer to Lichtenstein, and I'll beat your brains out with my peace prize!"

"Big brother, there's no need for violence."

"Prussia, give me back my piano bench!"

"Not a chance, prude!"

"Hungary, stop filming this!"

"Turkey, put the cat down or lose your left arm."

"Make me!"

"Um, Denmark? Please don't throw Mr. Kumakichi..."

"Who the hell just said that? Is somebody talking?"

"I will declare war!"

"Don't touch me there!"

"Another round!"

"Things don't go _in_ there?"

"Where the hell is all the wurst damn it?"

"More Vodka!"

England slammed his face against the bar—twice—then moved his head morosely to the side to avoid a flying bowl of pasta followed by three tomatoes, a kitten and what appeared to be Austria's pants.

He looked over to watch America (the love of his life, his entire reason for coming to this hell hole) arm wrestling with a sinisterly smiling Russia.

"Give up. It is no use Amerika!"

"Yeah right! I'm a hero! Heroes never quit!" He was wrestling with his right arm and taking swigs from a beer bottle with the left (and what England wouldn't give to be that bottle, pressed tightly against his lips...)

And now he was thinking about trading lives with a beer bottle.

That was it. England was clinically insane.

"Victory for the U S of A!" America crowed, jumping up and down in triumph. Beside him Russia was muttering something vaguely menacing and beginning to raise a lead pipe. America swept an arm down on his shoulder, smiling brilliantly. "Don't worry, dude” and suddenly those gorgeous blue eyes were pointing in England's direction, that smile turned on _him,_ meant only for _him_...

"Iggy's covering everyone's drinks tonight! How about another barrel of Vodka!"

"Da! That is probably the most intelligent thing you have said in the last one hundred years, Amerika!"

England's horrified eyes moved from the (bloody massive) mountain of Vodka bottles next to Russia, to the jungle of discard bottles of rum near Seychelles and Spain, to the plateau of Sake near the red faced Japan and the kilometers of empty beer cans and wine bootles in-between.

The bartender moved over to him, a single brow raised. "Should I just put this on your tab?"

England's face met the counter again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: *Fail chapter is fail because author is too tired to write actions and cops out with more dialogue.*
> 
> Thanks for reading! And remember, every time you don't leave feedback, England has to pour out a perfectly good cup of tea. THINK OF THE TEA! D:


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OPERATION: "British Seduction"  
> STATUS: Stratagem "Golf" failure  
> REASSESS--> Mission upgrade  
> STRATAGEM: "Hotel"  
> COMMENCE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Germany is more likely to share beer than I am to own Hetalia.

_Chapter 8: Stratagem Hotel_

It was a beautiful morning. The sun was shining. Birds were singing. A happy squirrel was chattering merrily in the distance. And England wanted it all to go to hell.

_DearsweetmotherofGodwhydoyou **hate me?**_

England's head was on fire. Strike that, his bloody _brain_ was on fire. His whole being seemed to scream with pain at the slightest provocation. Every sound was like a katana through the ear. The merest flash of light and it was as if he had somehow switched his Visine with Sulfuric Acid. England was in hell. (And it didn't help that the bleendin' birds would just _shut the hell up_.)

There was only one conclusion to symptoms like these: He was hung over.

England moaned, clutching the top of his head and squeezing his eyes tightly shut. What the hell happened last night? He vaguely remembered a discussion about filing for bankruptcy and throwing several empty Vodka bottles at a randy France, but the rest was a dark blur. England wasn't quite sure whether that was a blessing or a curse. Though judging by the immensity of the pain in his head, he was going to assume that some things were better left forgotten.

Which brought him to an even better question: Where in the bloody hell was he right now?

He could tell by the unfamiliar feel of the bed sheets around him and the angle from which the (murderous) morning rays were approaching him, he wasn't in his hotel room. That window was on the other side. A quick blind grope revealed that England was still dressed in his clothes from the previous night. Good. That most likely meant that nothing _unsavory_ that he would most certainly regret had happened. But that did not change the fact that England was currently in some unknown location, sleeping in another person's bed, and without the foggiest clue as to how he had gotten there.

As if in answer to his query, the door to the room flew open. England's eyes shot open in shock, only to snap back shut again as the light assaulted them. But he couldn't protect is ears from the barrage of sound that was the idiot marching into the room.

"OH ENGLAND, YOU'RE UP!"

America. Of course.

England groaned, squinting his eyes to peer minutely up into that sunny smile. (Bloody hell, was the light reflecting off of his _teeth_?) Any other day he would have been overjoyed to wake up to America's smiling face. But not today. Oh no, today England wanted to wrap about six rolls of duct tape around that ridiculously bright grin so the fool would stop _bludgeoning_ his ears with that _pickaxe_ of a voice.

But life was neither kind nor convenient enough to provide him with duct tape or enough energy to even sit up. So England laid there squint-glaring at America and silently cursing everything from his toenails to his glasses to kingdom come.

"I BROUGHT YOU SOMETHING!"

"Stop beaming like that, you dolt. And for the love of _God_ stop yelling." England hissed, barely audible but enough to cause him to wince painfully.

America laughed ( _shut up, shut up, **shut up**_ ) and England heard him shift closer to the bed. "I'm not yelling, Iggy." (And he wasn't really, but England would continue to blame his misery on him.)

England grumbled something incoherent and buried his head beneath the covers. (It didn't matter that the git had probably carried him home in a drunken stupor last night, taken the time to make sure he was tucked safely into bed and not drowning in a puddle of his own sick. That he'd probably done it all while fairly smashed himself. America was still the most obnoxious, harsh, addlebrained, moronic-)

"I have pain meds."

(-absolutely _wonderful_ person England had ever been blessed with meeting.)

England pulled the covers down just far enough to make out the hazy outline of America's hands holding out a glass of water and two small white pills. With a grunt (which he tried to make sound grateful but came out as irritated), England took the pills and gulped a few mouthful of the water, letting out a satisfied moan at the cool wetness against his searing throat.

As he waited for the medication to kick in, England finally noticed the enticing aroma of food. He blinked, still hissing slightly at the light, but could indeed make out a tray of what appeared to be scrambled eggs, several thick sausages, a few strips of bacon, a glass of orange juice, and even (England's heart swelled to bursting) a steaming cup of hot tea, all being proffered to him by an expectant-looking America.

"I made you breakfast. Thought you might need it since you went a little overboard last night. "America smiled, setting the tray down in England's lap. "Sorry if you don't like the tea. I had to go out and buy some 'cus I don't keep it in the house. I tried to make it the way I remember you liked, but it's been a couple hundred years." America was smiling at him, scratching the back of his head in an almost nervous manner.

England just blinked at him stupidly. America had thought about his _comfort_. America had made him _breakfast in bed_. America had gone out of his way to prepare _tea_ for him.

England would have pinched himself if he wasn't so frightened of finding out it really was all a dream.

Instead, England reached out to cup the mug of tea in his palms before bringing it to his lips. The smell was pleasant and familiar. England allowed the smallest of smiles to touch his lips before taking a sip. It was slightly bitter as America had forgotten the slight dash of honey England always added, but he didn't care. America had made it _for him,_ and that was all the sweetness he needed.

"Thank you." He whispered, glancing up into America face (Was that an anxious expression?) America smiled, clapping him on the back before taking a piece of bacon from the tray. "Mind if I nab a bit of your food? I'm still hungry."

England nodded, waving a hand for America to continue. There was far too much food for one person anyway, what with the ridiculous American portion sizes.

By the time England finished, America had ended up eating half of his bacon, two of the sausages, and nearly all of the eggs. England heart was lighter than air as he watched America gesticulate widely as he told some story or other, that familiar, childish glee lighting up his face. There he was, sitting in America's bed, (with America), eating breakfast (together). It was so surreal…and England was afraid that if he spoke, if he breathed too loudly, it would all disappear.

"Anyway, that Ruski had it coming. No one underestimates my heroic awesomeness!" America punched the air, smiling widely in England's direction (and England was so desperately in love with him it _hurt_ ). "So, you wanna go downstairs? I heard the coffee pot go off a while ago and as you know 'America runs on Dunkin'." He put air quotes around the last few words before leaning in conspiratorially. "It's really a Starbuck's home-blend, but don't tell anyone." He giggled, jumping off the bed and grabbing the now empty tray from England lap.

"Come on."

England fought his way out from underneath the covers, realising with a start that America must have "tucked him in" the night before for the blankets to be so snug. (England was glad America's back was turned. He wouldn't see the ridiculously happy grin that split England’s face.)

He followed America down the hallway, noting the bits and pieces of memorabilia from the past few decades hung haphazardly from the walls. With a small pang he noticed a small picture of himself and America outside of a Beetles concert. (Had he really worn his hair that way? How ridiculous…)

Finally he and America reached the rather spacious kitchen. The first thing England noticed was the rather overwhelming smell of fresh coffee. The second was France sitting at the kitchen table reading a newspaper.

England knew this morning had been too good to be true.

"Hey France, Canadia!" America said with a smile and a wave (Canadia? Who else was the boy talking too?) before heading off towards the coffee maker in the corner.

"Bonjour Amérique, Angleterre." France glanced up from his reading to scrutinize the two of them. "What took you so long? I thought you were going to rouse the _rosbif_ and deliver his breakfast. What could the two have you _possibly_ been doing in a bedroom that could have taken so much time…?"

England was too busy grabbing the nearest object (a banana) and hurling it in France's direction to notice the way America's back stiffened. "Keep your perverted notions to yourself _,_ frog!"

"Ah, but they are your notions too, are they no-"

"CARNIVAL!"

_Saved by the bell_ , thank England's lucky stars.

"What?" France said, looking around the room. "Who said that?"

"Me, you know, Canada? The guy you were talking to before America and England showed up?" The voice seemed to be issuing from the empty seat beside France. How bizarre. Perhaps America was really onto something with all his ghost theories.

"Canada? I am sorry, I do not know anyone of that name." France said, shaking his head and looking in bewilderment at the empty chair.

The chair sighed. "You and England both helped raise me? My house is right above here? I look an awful lot like America?"

"Ah yes," France said, snapping his fingers in recognition. "The America look-a-like. How long have you been sitting there mon petit?"

Canada shook his head in exasperation. (When _had_ he sat down in that empty chair? It was like he had materialized out of thin air or something.) "Long enough, look." He pointed down to the newspaper in front of him. "This advertisement says there's a carnival in town. I think we should go."

England spoke up. "That was rather sudden and unrelated to the topic…um…"

"Canada."

"Right. Shouldn't we-" But he was cut off as America came bounding over to the table, a hopeful light gleaming in his bright, blue eyes.

"DUDE WE SHOULD TOTALLY GO TO THE CARNIVAL! OH MY GOD THAT WOULD BE AWESOME-SAUCE!" It would always amaze England how America managed to talk-scream and drink extremely hot beverages at the same time without spilling our burning his tongue to high heaven.

"Inside voices, America!" He chided, meeting Canada's gaze across the table. Now that he thought about it, he also knew about England's feelings for America being the one England had accidentally confessed to. And the way the conversation had been going, France would have exposed him had not Canada intervened. He gave the timid blond a small, knowing smile which Canada returned before cutting into America's excited jabbering.

"Why don't we go today Al? It'll be fun. Carnivals are a great place to," he shot England a pointed glance "spend time with the people you care about, don't you agreed?"

"Oh yeah dude, totally!" America beamed, snatching up the paper Canada had been reading to scan over the particulars. "It's not that far from here. And admission is buy three get one free today! We should totally go!"

He grinned around the table, looking hopefully at England.

"I don't know lad. I've got a lot of work to catch up on." (They _were_ at supposed to be here for the World Conference, after all.)

"Please Iggy! It won't even cost ya a thing! You'll be the fourth one free!" England's resolve wavered as he looked into those puppy-dog eyes. (Damn it, America had used that look since he was a child and he _still_ wasn't immune to it!) "Come on man, there'll be a ton of fun games and cool prizes! Rides too! You like ferris wheels, right? You've got that really big one back at your place."

A ferris wheel? _A ferris wheel_? The gears in England's brain started whirring as a sudden idea popped into his head.

"Why yes, America, I would love to go."

"Horray!" America cheered before starting in on a reluctant-looking France.

He didn't even notice when England hurriedly excused himself from the room.

He had a few phone calls to make.

\---

America, as it turned out, could be even _more_ childishly obnoxious than anyone ever thought possible. All he needed were some flashing lights and a bit of cotton candy.

"Oh my God Matt, check this out!"

"It's just a funhouse mirror, Alfred."

"I know, but it I turn this way, I'm super buff!" America pivoted so that his reflect in the mirror distorted around his chest and biceps. "Not that I'm not already pretty ripped."

"Ah," said France, striding forward and turning America so that he could pier at his profile in the mirror. "But if you turn this way, you'll see what you will look like in the next ten years if you continue to gorge yourself on fattening hamburgers and preservatives." America's reflection expanded around his stomach so that his gut extended out in front of him like a far-along pregnancy.

"Hey!" America threw the stuffed bear he had won in a game ring toss towards France's head. (At least that was what England thought it was until he heard Canada's forlorn cry of "Kumajaku!").

France was not in the best of moods (git). America had managed to persuade him to come to the carnival by beguiling him with tales of "Kissing Booths". Unfortunately for France, there was not a single such booth to be found. Apparently in recent years, people had come to realise that a twenty-five cent kiss was not worth contracting Mono or Swine Flu. ("What a travesty! I shall remedy this horrendous attack on l'amour!")Which then led to France attempting to open his own Kissing Booth, and America having to bribe the management to not act on the several reports of sexual harassment that followed.

France had been slightly more hopeful about the Tunnel of Love, but America had been too petulant to wait in line for an hour to ride in a tiny boat in the dark ("It moves too slow to even have seatbelts! How lame!"), for which England was secretly thankful. Lord knew what he would do if placed in a secluded area with America. Alone. In the dark.

(They'd still had to restrain France from ambushing loving couples in the dark with requests for a _ménage à trois_. )

It also turned out that America was quite the expert at carnival games, while England was…well _not_.

_"You're British, you should kick ass at horseshoes!"_

_"This isn't ruddy horseshoes! The balance of these things is all wrong and the pole is too far away for regulation."_

_"Excuses, excuses."_

So far, America had cleaned house at the target shooting station (well, he _was_ American), darts, free throws (a kind of basketball games which England thought was extremely unfair as it favored America by creation) and baseball toss (again, favoring America through its sheer existence).

He'd also tried the "Test of Strength" game, but his ridiculous super-strength had caused the hammer to go straight through the target at the bottom and burry itself in the ground. America had ended up having to pay for the damage, so England didn't really think it counted as a victory.

Still, he now had several carts of stuffed animals and other cheap prizes which England and Canada had been assigned to cart around. Not that England minded. It kept him from having to participate in the rest of the "carnival experience", ie: going on the rides. He would have quite enjoyed such things if not for America's ruthless competitiveness. They had tried bumper cars in the beginning, and America had nearly thrown poor Canada from his cart with a single 'bump'. (Trust America's people to invent a ride based around reckless driving.) Besides, rollercoasters and spinning teacups made him dizzy. No, England was completely fine with being the strange grown man guarding a hoard of stuffed animals while the other three battered themselves to pieces.

Besides, there was only one ride today that England needed to be on.

He checked his watch anxiously once more as America continued to throw bits of half-eaten food and toys in France's direction. They only had about a half hour before the scheduled time and the sky was beginning to grow dim.

"Hey America, why don't we head over to the ferris wheel?" It was the only ride they had not yet been on, so there was no way America would refuse.

America stopped attempting to beat France's to death with the fun house mirror to grin widely at him. "Sure England." He dropped the mirror which shattered over France's head and strode over to him.

The two of them (thought England could have sworn there had been someone else beside him not but a few minutes ago) and the wine bastard, headed in the direction of the largest attraction the carnival had to offer. A large wheel (though ridiculously small by the standards of the London Eye) protruded from the cluster of buildings, booths, and kiosks near the entrance to the fair. The line for the attraction wasn't long (most children these days seemed to prefer the near-death experience of rollercoasters) which played right into England's plans.

He checked his watch again. Fifteen minutes.

"I don't want to go on. Why don't France and I stay here and you and England go on ahead, Alfred?"

(Where in the world was that voice coming from?)

"Alright Matt, see ya when we get down." England shrugged off the confusion, dropping the handle to the cart he had been toting and following America up the incline which led towards the wheel. The two of them clambered into a single carriage, England taking care to sit across from America rather than beside him. He wanted to be able to see the expression on America's face when his plan came to fruition.

The cold metal seat beneath him groaned as the mechanism started up again. They lunched forward slightly, England's breath hitching as their knees brushed. America whistled to himself, throwing an arm out of the carriage and twirling his fingers lazily in the wind. The dying sunlight caught in his hair, casting shades of red and orange into the deep gold. His eyes twinkled in the twilight. England averted his gaze to his shoelaces, unable to keep looking for fear America might notice his swoon.

He glanced once more at his watch. Five minutes and they had not even scaled half of the wheels girth. (The thing better to move bloody faster and _soon_ or England would break out his spell book and _make it_ ).

"Why so nervous England?" America was looking at him, laughter in those beautiful eyes. "Afraid we're gonna fall? Don't worry, this is American-made, absolutely no way it'll fail!" he gave the metal gate beside him a small pat.

England only grunted in response, too preoccupied with the time and gleam of sun against America's cheeks to care much for what he was saying.

"I remember the first time I rode on one of these." America murmured fondly, fingering the gate with a far-off look in his eyes. "My people wanted to build it. Everyone kept telling them they couldn't, France, Germany, even you." He caught England's eyes for a moment before turning away.

"But they did it. They succeeded. He closed his eyes, a small smile touching his lips. "When you got the top of that thing…man, it was like you were king of the world. Wind whipping through your hair. Nothing but blue skies and open fields around you."

England watched America's still closed eyes as the crinkled around the edges with mirth. The awe, the joy, the wonder, England could understand it all perfectly. It was how he felt every single time he looked into those beautiful baby blues.

"Hey look Iggy, a plane!" England was startled out of his revelry as America pointed towards a nearby aircraft. Was it already time? England checked his watch and grinned as the wheel ground to a halt. They were positioned perfectly at the top, and the plane had arrived right on schedule. For once, _everything_ would go according to plan.

He would not mess this up. It would be perfect.

"Look, it's writing something!" America sat up straighter in his seat, pointing as the plane began to make artful loops, the exhaust from its tailpipe forming cursive letters.

_This was it._

England scooted subtly forward so that his and America's legs brushed and, if he wanted to, England could reach out and take his hand.

"I think that's an 'I'!" America gabbed excitedly, completely unaware of England's hand inching slowly towards his own on the balustrade "And those are an 'L' and an 'O'! Let's see 'I-L-O'…hm…"

America stroked his chin in thought as England's little finger brushed up against his. "'I-L-O'…Oh, that's a 'V' and those are an 'E' and a 'Y'. Hmm…' I-L-O-V-E-Y'. What could it be?"

If England hadn't been so caught up in attempting to subtly hold America's hand, he would have smacked him for his stupidity.

"More letters! Those are an 'O' and a 'U' and the one he's making right now looks like an 'A'." His lips began to move silently as his mouthed out the letters in an attempt to discern their meaning. "He just added another 'L', I think I get it now!"

England looked away from the skywriting to take in America's face as comprehension began to dawn on him. This was it. This was the moment. With more will than he had ever thought possible, England lifted his hand up to completely cover America's just as the younger began to speak the phrase written in the sky.

"America, I-"

"I love you, Albert."

…What?

"That's what it says!" said America happily, gesticulating proudly towards the sky as though he had just came up with the cure for cancer. "'I love you, Albert'. Wow, Albert is one lucky guy. Only someone who truly loved him would have it written out in the sky like that. It must have been pretty expensive too. How thoughtful."

England's heart was plummeting faster than France from the pulpit.

No. Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, _no_.

America was looking at him now, brows knotted. "You okay, Iggy? Your face is all green."

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, _no._

"…England?"

NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO _, NO_.

"Um… why are you trying to break my hand off?"

It was only then that England realised his loving touch against America's hand had turned into a feral death grip. The tips of America's fingers were purple.

"Could you let go? It kind of hurts."

England released America's fingers, turned and began banging his face repeatedly into the handrail. He'd sent the message explicitly to the company. There was no way they could have messed it up, unless…

_Damn autocorrect_!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And remember, every time you don't leave feedback Italy has to eat American-made pasta. 0.o


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OPERATION: "British Seduction"  
> STATUS: Stratagem "Hotel" failure  
> REASSESS--> Mission upgrade  
> STRATAGEM: "India"  
> COMMENCE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: France is more likely to become celibate than I am to own Hetalia.

_Chapter 9: Stratagem India_

England was currently contemplating the merits of jumping from the top of a sixty meter high ferris wheel. On the upside, he'd manage to escape his choking humiliation and America's vacantly confused stare.

The downside, he'd probably die. (Which would still mean escaping from his humiliation in a roundabout sort of way. It was worth considering.)

England was startled out of his thoughts when a large hand waved in front of his face, nearly taking off his nose.

"Iggy? You okay? You've been glaring at the railing for about a minute…"

England blushed hotly, turning away from the idiot's gaze ( _God damn it, why don't you just **notice** already?_) Perhaps it was his own overwhelming chagrin, but England wasn't feeling all that amiable at the moment. Part of him (a very large part) wanted to simply grab America and kiss him until the fool had no choice but to except the (bleedin' _obvious_ ) truth. The other (much more British) aspect of his character wanted to curl up around a bottle of gin, bemoan the world and all that lived in it, and perhaps throw a few heavy objects at France. Just for the hell of it.

He finally decided on secret option number three: passive-aggressive terseness. The Queen would be so proud.

"I'm fine." England bit out, smiling in an overly forced manner. The part of his brain which still retained some hint of sanity noted that subtlety was what had landed him in this predicament in the first place. (The extremely heart-broken, pissed-the-hell-off part of him beat this notion into silent submission.) "Just contemplating whether or not a fall from this height would be enough to crush a man's spine."

America blinked at him blankly. "I don't get British humor." He looked back out at the (horribly mangled) skywriting, a small smile on his face. The carriages began to move back down towards the ground. "That was such a nice thing for someone to do. I wish I had someone I could do that for, or who would do something like that for me, you know?"

Of course he bloody knew! He was _intimately_ familiar with the feeling. How thick could one person get?

England grunted noncommittally in response, glad that the ride was almost over. He didn't know how much longer he could stay in the cart without sexually assaulting America, beating him within an inch of his life, or choking on his own embarrassment. (The last seemed to be winning out).

The carriage coasted to a stop, and England had to fight the urge to elbow his way out. The mortification of the entire ride was making him sick to his stomach. He needed to get out before he wrote his confession on America's lap in vomit. He was a gentleman, damn it all! And he would remain one till the end (or at least until America was out of sight. Then nothing was off the table).

So he passive-aggressively grunted in thanks when America held the carriage door open for him. He passive-aggressively tripped over the lip of the door. He recovered with a passive-aggressive cry of "Damn it!" And he passive-aggressively ignored the concerned look America shot him before trotting off towards France and Canada's waiting figures. Passive-aggressively. In true English style.

"How was the ride?" France smirked, eyes flicking upwards towards the still glaring message in the sky.

England ignored him, instead turning to Canada who was looking at him like someone had just died. (He found he much preferred France's snide remarks).

"Just _don't_." He growled at both of them, just as America came trotting up behind.

"Sorry, left my wallet on the ferris wheel." He looked from France's smirk, to Canada's mournful frown, to England's petulant scowl.

He smiled. "Seems like everyone's in a good mood."

England face palmed.

\---

"He's just so thick, ya know? And wus wit tha' 'air o' 'is 'nyway? Tha' one bit always stickin' up in the front?"

England was talking to a cactus. At least, that's what is looked like. Everything was a little blurry around the edges at the moment. (In other words, England didn't have a bleedin' clue what exactly he was looking at). But it was green and sharp to the touch, so England had dubbed it a cactus and a cactus it would remain.

"I've tried to tell 'im, but the git's too thick too see it. Too thick in the brain and the middle. Needs to stop eatin' so many ruddy ‘amburgers…" England mumbled incoherently into his glass of tonic. What the hell was he drinking anyway? It was purple and smelled like the bad end of an elephant.

" 'ey barman, wus this?" He waved the glass above his head, spilling its contents every which way. " 'ey! D'you 'ear me? I'm talkin' to ya!" England scowled at the cactus. "Can't get any blasted service around 'ere."

Which wasn't true seeing as said bartender had attempted to pry the glass from England's unwitting fingers on several occasions that night to no avail. He sighed to himself as he watched the strange blond man wave his glass above his head. He'd stopped serving him actual alcohol a while ago and had been slipping him smashed blackberries every time the blond drunkenly slurred for "Anuthur!" But his customer hadn't even seemed to notice and continued to ramble on to the plant next him about some person he'd dubbed everything from " _my baby_ " to " _a right fucking prick_ ".

Currently he was on "prick" mode.

"I jus' don't understand why 'e can't see it! It's pret'y bleedin' obvious, am I right?" England punched the cactus/plant/whatever-the-hell only to quickly jerk back his hand in pain. "Wha' d'you go an’ do that for? Christ, that 'urt!" He slapped the plant which only resulted in more cursing, which resulted in more slapping, then more cursing, and more slapping again.

It was a vicious cycle.

Finally deciding to jump in and save the poor guy's hand from total mutilation, the bartender moved forward and gently grabbed the blond by the wrist. England was not pleased. "Don't you lay a bloody finger on meh! I'll kick your sorry arse! Le' meh the 'ell go!"

"I think you've had enough for tonight."

England's shouts of indignation quickly turned to sobs of anguish. The bartender sighed. Not this again.

"I jus want'd 'im to know, ya know? But 'e don't 'nd I'm gonna end up alone. Damn ungrateful brat! Shouldn't a left me in the first place! What'd I do wrong? Why'm I always doin' things wrong?" England attempted to cradle the cactus to his chest as he rocked backwards and forwards in the fetal position, only to cry out again as it stuck him.

"You wanna go you tosser!" He screamed at it. "I'll take you right 'ere, right now!"

The bartender pinched the bridge of his nose. He was never working this shift again. He grabbed the man's cell phone which was sitting on the bar in front of him. When the man had first come in, he'd simply sat there drinking and tracing the edges of his phone as though debating whether or not to call someone. Of course, that had been before the second, third, and fourth bottles of brandy. Now he was just a blubbering mess with a cactus.

"Hey bud, is there anyone I can call to come and get you?"

The man didn't seem to notice, wrapped up as he was with kicking the ever-loving crap out of a plant. The barkeep took this as a sign of agreement, and scrolled through the blonde’s contacts. This didn't really tell him much as _all_ of the guy's contacts were listed as countries. Weird…

With a shrug, he opted on the most recent call and waited on the dial tone.

The conversation with the person on the other end was short—a bit confused. He had the strangest accent… But it didn't matter because he promised to pick up his friend within the next five minutes.

The bartender slid the phone back across the table to the now violently ranting and flailing blond who hadn't even noticed it was gone. "Stupid git! 'e'll never understand! 'e's just so bloody stupid it 'urts! I mean, 'ow 'ard do I gotta try before 'e sees?" He went off into a disjointed and tear-filled tirade revolving around a Russian, a puzzle, and what sounded like a summary to the movie _Pride and Prejudice._

"Dude, your friend is gonna come pick you up soon, okay?" The bartender cut in just as the blonde started on something about autocorrect being a filthy whore. The man didn't register that he was being spoken to, but continued to sob into his glass. "Whatever." The bartender finally gave up, returning to his other customers. Let the weirdo drown in his bizarre miseries, his part was done.

Just then the door to the bar flew open and Japan came rushing in. "England-san? Are you alright?" He touched the other man gently on the shoulder. England turned at the touch, surveying Japan through bleary, blood-shot eyes. "…China?"

He deadpanned. "No England-san. It is me, Japan."

"Oh Japan! Good 'ol chap. China's a right tosser. Bloody ruinin' everything! I'll get 'im back though…kick ‘is sorry arse all the way back to Beijing!" He was rambling and clutching at what appeared to be a cactus. Japan decided to let the strangeness of the situation slide in favor of getting England back to the hotel alive.

"Come on, England-san. You are not in your right mind at the moment. You need to go home and rest. Let me help you." He attempted to pry the cactus from England's hands so that he might hoist the blond into a standing position, but England would have none of it.

"No, Timothy stays!"

Japan quirked a brow. "Who?"

"Timothy!" England pulled the plant closer, glaring daggers at it. "'is name's Timothy Filbert. We ‘ave a score ta settle."

"…Alright then."

Japan helped England to his feet (an extremely difficult task seeing as his had absolutely no sense of coordination and was clutching a cactus as though his life depended upon it). Placing what he hoped to be an adequate amount of money on the counter, Japan led England out of the bar. The establishment was not far from the hotel most of the nations were staying at, but the entire five minute walk was spent either keeping England from blindly stumbling into traffic with cries of "e'll never love me! What's the point?" or trying to convince the blond that Japan was in fact _not_ China and therefore it would _not_ be a good idea to keep trying to beat him around the head with 'Timothy Filbert'.

Still, when England wasn't attempting to kill himself or others, he would mumble heartbrokenly into Japan's shoulder about an "oblivious git" whom Japan was fairly certain he knew the identity of. The compassionate, shoujo manga-reading part of Japan was touched by England's plight. He wanted to help him, not only to make up for his previous failed assistance, but to prevent what sounded like drunken declarations of war from England.

And Japan knew just the way to do it.

\---

When England awoke, it was to a splitting headache, unfamiliar sheets and the taste of bile coating the inside of his throat. Déjà vu. (And he wasn't even French).

With a groan England sat up, hands scrabbling along the bedside table where he found a glass of water and two aspirins already waiting for him. Not even pausing to think about where the hell he was or if the water even safe to drink, England downed the pills and finally cracked open his eyes.

It was still early morning if the dim light filtering through the window was anything to go by. But that was not what caught England's attention. No, that was glowing computer screen in the corner and the haggard, sleep-deprived nation clacking away at the keyboard in front of it.

"Japan?" He asked cautiously.

"Ah Enlgand-san, you are awake!" Japan turned to face him, brown eyes ringed with purple crescent moons. "I take it you took the pills I left out for you. You should drink some more water though. What you Westerners dub 'hangovers' are actually the result of dehydration due to-"

"Japan, why the ruddy hell am I in your hotel room?"

"Ah yes, well," Japan turned back to his computer screen, fingers gliding across the keys once more. "I received a call last night to come and pick you up at the tavern down the street. You were a bit…" his voice trailed away as he searched for more delicate phrasing "… _incapacitated_ to a degree. But it is no matter. I brought you back here because I feared you might cause yourself harm if left alone."

“…Cause myself harm?"

"You kept punching Filbert-san."

"Who the bloody hell is Filbert?"

"Your cactus." Japan pointed the bedside table where Timothy Filbert stood proudly next to England's empty glass of water.

England blinked at it. Now that Japan mentioned it, there was a rather (excruciating) throbbing in his right hand. Just what the bloody hell happened last night? (And why in the name of Christ did it involve a cactus?)

Deciding to go with his motto of "things better left forgotten", England peered over Japan's shoulder at the glowing computer screen which was filled with lines and lines of code. "Japan, just what are you doing?"

Japan smiled groggily up at him, the dark circles beneath his eyes even more pronounced in the blue light from the screen. "I am creating your perfect confession."

"…What?"

Japan giggled, hopefully from overwork hysteria and not early-onset schizophrenia. "I spent all last night working on it." He clicked a few buttons on the keyboard so that the screen shifted from lines of code to what appeared to be a video game, reminiscent of old pixelated arcade games. "I designed this specifically to help you confess to America. It works like a virus. Once you import it into America's laptop, there will be nothing he can do but finish the game in order to recover his lost data. Each level is a maze of various mind-puzzles which give the player clues to unlocking the next level. In this case, every clue is a short phrase detailing one thing you love about America."

England's cheeks flushed scarlet. "And just how exactly do you know what… _things_ I love about America?"

"You were quite talkative last night, England-san."

"…Ah."

"Anyway, the clues will not be so obvious that America realises the intended speaker is you. He will only find out your true identity when he reaches the very end." Japan smiled softly, his humility and pride fighting for dominance of his face. "I believe it will be quite successful, don't you agree?"

England just stared at Japan, lost for words. Part of him wanted to curl up in a tight ball and slowly erode away from the embarrassment of Japan knowing his innermost secrets. The other was so elated that England could have squeezed the life out of him. (England resisted the latter. Japan looked lifeless enough as it was).

"Thank you, Japan. I don't know what to say." Well he did, but there were several choice words he was sure Japan, particularly in his current state, was better off not hearing.

"It was no trouble, England-san. It was the least I could do after my last attempt to help went so terribly wrong." He pulled a flash-drive from the desktop and handed it to England. "The program is saved in a file marked "USUK". Simply drag it into America's file drive, and the rest will take care of itself.

(USUK, what the hell?) England smiled taking the memory stick from Japan as the other stood and stretched.

"Now England-san, if you will excuse me, I need to rest."

Then Japan promptly crumpled into a heap on the bed.

\---

It was surprisingly easy for England to gain access to America's laptop. All he'd had to do was give the blond a coupon for "ONE FREE BREAKFAST" at the nearby McDonald's and America was sprinting out of the Conference Room doors.

Opening the case, England realised he didn't know America's password. He clicked the ‘password hint’ button and rolled his eyes as the phrase "A hero's favorite food" popped up. Imbecile. Only America would have airport security tighter than a hangman's noose and make his personal computer password his favourite food.

England typed in HAMBURGER, and waited as the screen loaded. The moment America's background screen appeared (a ridiculous photo of him posed with Ronald McDonald outside of a Burger King) England plugged the flash-drive in and pasted the virus-game-confession into America's computer.

He quickly powered off the device and set it back at America's seat before any of the surrounding nations noticed anything was amiss.

Now to wait for America to (become his) arrive.

This was perfect. It played right into America's heroism and love of brain-rotting video games.

What could possibly go wrong?

\---

Apparently a lot of things.

When America returned with about six egg McMuffins shoved into his mouth, he'd gone straight to his computer and powered it on. England watched him discretely from behind a cup of tea, as America's brows furrowed before lighting up as he beheld the game on his screen. America shot Japan (who was attempting to keep from nodding off) a competitive look before clicking away madly at the keys.

England smiled and turned to watch Switzerland's presentation on international relations. America seemed to be enjoying himself, and that was all that mattered, right?

About two hours into the meeting, America let out a strangled cry, "WHAT IS THIS? Thid game is freaking impossible! Ugh, how do you even…No! Damn it! GOD!" Standing up, America lifted up his laptop and hurled it through the window.

"I freaking hate life!" he shouted, throwing his briefcase after the laptop. "I mean, why, damnit?” He kicked the leg of the chair next to him, Canada falling to the ground with a strangled cry of "Maple!"

Beside England, Japan let out a shaky laugh. "Perhaps I shouldn't have put so many Professor Layton puzzles in there…"

England’s right hand began to throb.

Where was a bloody cactus when you needed one?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because rage-quitting is the best kind of quitting.  
> Thanks for reading! And remember, every time you don't leave feedback Romano actually has to do work.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OPERATION: "British Seduction"  
> STATUS: Stratagem "India" failure  
> REASSESS--> Mission upgrade  
> STRATAGEM: "Juliet"  
> COMMENCE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: China is more likely to lop off his ponytail and donate it to Locks of Love than I am to own Hetalia.

_Chapter 10: Stratagem Juliet_

England was depressed. Strike that, he was _devastated_. He was _traumatized._ He was lost in a whirling sea of misery and a defeat, too wild and deep for even the mind numbing effects of alcohol to tame. No, England needed something warmer than the burn of Scotch and more filling than a mug of ale. There was only one thing that could fill the gaping void in the center of his chest.

Ice cream and chick flicks.

England was currently about halfway through a gigantic tub of cookies n’ cream and Disney's _Cinderella._ He'd already polished off the mint chocolate chip while watching _27 Dresses_ and strawberry swirl during _Titanic_. (And he didn't give a flying fuck if he looked like a loon, wrapped up in a dressing gown like some mental patient, occasionally sobbing and shoveling ice cream into his mouth. He was upset, god damn it! The rest of the world could just take their snide judgments and shove them up their arses for all he cared.)

Forcing another spoonful of icy comfort food past his lips, England watched the little animated figure of Cinderella as she sung to herself and scrubbed the floors. He imagined his life to be the multitudes of bubbles floating around her, empty and fragile and bursting at the slightest provocation.

His life was meaningless.

He had _tried_. He had tried so bloody _hard_ , and yet, nothing seemed to work out in his favor. All his hopes and aspirations disintegrated beneath his touch. And the worst part was, it was all his _own_ doing. (Except for that incident with China. _Ruddy bastard_.)

For once, England couldn't place the blame for his failures on anyone but himself. His own short comings had led to this. His own inadequacies. America remained beyond his reach not because the boy ran faster, but because England was too pathetically slow to catch up. And that thought _stung_.

England watched Cinderella sewing with some mice while absentmindedly scraping at the tub of ice cream in his lap. He listened to the dull scratching of metal against plastic for a good minute before giving it up as a bad job and hurling the bucket across the room. (How dare it be out of delicious empty calories when he needed it most!)

With a huff, he reached an arm over to the massive pile of discarded ice cream cartons beside him and rummaged around for a fresh batch, never taking his eyes off the screen. He groped uselessly for a few moments (coating his fingers in sticky-melted-sugariness) before managing to topple the entire tacky tower off the side of the mattress. (Jesus _bleeding_ Christ, he couldn't do _anything_ right.) With several loud swears which would have made even a wasted Prussia blush, England threw the bedcovers off and stocked over to gather the cartons. Life was a _whore_. She was a bleeding _filthy_ whore who could just go take a long walk off a short cliff into a vat of toxic waste infested with sharks while screwing herself to high heaven for all England car-

England froze, eyes glued to the television screen. There. _There._

How perfect. How fantastically, magically, god damn _beautifully_ perfect.

The ice cream cartons fell to the floor with a clatter as England shot to his feet, eyes bright and medieval grin plastered into place. Faster than the eye could blink, he had turned heel and dashed towards the telephone, leaving nothing but the sparkling image of Cinderella stepping into a gleaming carriage on the television screen behind.

\---

The night was dark, the stars winking down upon the figure of a lone man striding up a paved path. The crescent moon bathed him in a soft light, accenting his dashing physique. A pair of polished shoes glimmering like black lacquer. A crisp, dark suit cut sharply to a slim build. Mysterious emerald eyes luminous in the darkness. Straight flaxen locks slicked back from a smooth forehead which housed the most _fantastic_ eyebrows the history of the known world.

England was in no way checking himself out. He was merely enjoying a true work of art. (And he didn't mind saying it looked bloody _brilliant_.)

After all, he had to look damn _fine_ tonight. He could leave no room for America to mistake his intentions. Not now.

With a deep breath, England traversed the last couple of steps up America's front porch. He stood before the oak front, fingering the end of his tie a bit nervously. He had called the boy earlier in the day, requesting his presence at a set time. America had agreed, but, of course, the boy had been distracted playing video games and had shouted something that sounded suspiciously like " _damn motion sensor_ " a second later. (England had given up all hope of America remembering his statement about formal dress.)

Still, England wasn't going to feel guilty for rousing America if the boy happened to be sleeping or interrupting his latest round of Halo. He had laid the foundation. Time to set the plan into motion.

Mustering up as much will as he could manage, England knocked resolutely upon America's door. He waited as the seconds trickled past, listening for the telltale signs of America approaching (ie, thundering footsteps, several heavy crashes and a few cries of "When the hell did that plant get there?").

Finally the door swung open to reveal a rather red-face and panting America. "Sorry Iggy, Tony was being a douche." He turned around to glare at someone England couldn't see. "Did ya wait long?"

But England wasn't listening. He was too busy attempting to keep his jaw from hitting the ground as he stared at the boy before him. America was in no way dressed to the nines. His blue button-up was wrinkled and he was wearing the same trousers he always wore to conference meetings, but damn if he didn't clean up well. The boy seemed to have taken some measures towards taming his hair. It was neatly brushed back in a style reminiscent of a forties swing cut. The lenses of his glasses had been cleaned and his shoes shone in awkward patches where he had apparently tried to polish them. The overall affect was endearingly juvenile and made England go a little weak in the knees.

(Blimey, he was in _deep_.)

Blushing furiously, England coughed and directed his glaze towards the floorboards. "Not at all, lad. Shall we?" He turned to gesture out towards the vehicle he'd arranged for the two of them, only to have America dash past him in a frenzy of excitement.

"HORSIE!" The boy leapt down the porch steps and barreled towards the horse situated in his front drive.

England had hoped to play on America's romanticism. That was why he had specially ordered the gleaming horse and carriage currently sitting in America’s front drive. A carriage ride between lovers in the dim glow of the moon—it was every little girl’s fantasy (and since America and small children seemed to have the same mental capacity, it seemed fitting). But of course, England should have realized something would go wrong.

Letting America be in the presence of a horse was like leaving France alone in a hotel suite with a menu full of adult films.

"Outta my way!" America vaulted up to where the chauffer was sitting at the reigns, shoving the poor, utterly bewildered man to the side before throwing himself into the saddle.

"Ride Sally! Ride!" He screamed, spurring his heels into the horse's haunches. The beast didn't even bat an eye. "Now what in tarnation?" (Oh, the Southern drawl was coming through. Lovely). America frowned down at the steed before leaning forward to caress its mane. "Now come on girl. Gidde up. Time's a waistin'!"

The horse snuffled petulantly.

"Come on now darlin'." America pondered for a moment before snapping at some epiphany. He ran his fingers through the horse's mane again before saying in an almost teasing tone "If ya light a fire in that there haunch a yours, there'll be some carrots in it for ya!"

Now that got the old girl moving. With a neigh of delight, the beast took off at a full gallop, America spurring her onwards. "Yee haw!” (When the hell did he get that bloody cowboy hat?)

It was only when the boy was a good two hundred meters down the path that England realised he was supposed to be in the carriage with him.

Ah details, details.

"YOU BLOODY MORON! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING? GET YOUR ARSE BACK HERE BEFORE I HAVE MY UNICORN GORE THE HELL OUT OF YOUR-"

From his crouched position on the ground, the driver watched in mild horror as at the mad cackling cowboy raced past with his carriage, followed by what appeared to be a very irate British midget.

That was the last time he took requests from a European.

England finally managed to slow America's progress with a frog to the head.

His (damn) good aim knocked the boy's hat clean off, and America let out a cry, reigning in the horse and leaping off in a panic.

"Not cool!" He shouted at England, going off to retrieve the fallen article. "Everyone knows you don't mess with a guy's hat. It's just… _wrong._ " He shuddered, leaning down to scoop the hat back into his arms.

England ignored the idiot's blubbering, hurrying over to the now batter and mud-streaked carriage. With great trepidation, England pulled open the carriage doors. His heart sank. The lovely velvet interior was now covered in the (ruddy _expensive_ ) wine he'd so painstakingly chosen just for this occasion. The beautiful bouquet of roses he'd bought was also dripping wet, the petals strewn about in every direction.

America came up behind him, smiling blithely "What's eatin' at cha?" He asked, peering down at England's petrified expression. (Of course, he'd put the bloody hat back on).

England grit his teeth and clenched his fists. _Keep calm and carry on_.

"Yo, Iggles!" A hand waved in front of his face.

_Keep calm._

"England~!"

_Keep **calm**._

"Hey! England! ENGLAND~!"

_KEEP CALM DAMN IT!_

"EYEBROWS!"

Fuck it.

"YOU GODDAMN BRAT! I'M GOING TO _KILL_ YOU!"

America let out a cry, diving to the side as England lunged for his throat. The Brit's eyes were wild, feral (and he could swear that was foam seeping from the corners of his mouth.) In short, England was _pissed._

And even America knew it was high time to get the hell away from him. _Fast_.

"GET BACK HERE YOU UNGRATEFUL GIT!" England crowed as America fled for the cover of the forest. "I'LL BEAT SOME PENANCE INTO THAT THICKNESS YOU CALL A BRAIN!"

After all, you know what they say. Spare the rod, spoil the child. (Now where did he keep that nine iron…)

\---

After chasing America through the woods for a good ten minutes with a meat clever and a box of rabid mice, England finally relented and allowed the fool to sit and catch his breath.

"Dude." America rasped between pants, legs shaking and eyes watering. "You…are… _insane_." He coughed for good measure before collapsing against a tree trunk.

"And you're an imbecile. Glad we could cover the obvious." He dumped the mice onto the ground and smirked as America scrambled away shrieking like a little girl. "I thought cowboys were supposed to be fearless?" He waltzed casually over to the half-glaring, half-crying nation and plucked the notorious hat from America's head.

"Ig-GY!" the boy shouted, pouting petulantly and holding his hand out. "Give it back!"

(The look most certainly did _not_ make England go weak in the knees)

"I don't think I will." England smirked in response. He plopped the (rather hideous) headwear atop his now-disheveled hair. "You'll get this back when you learn how to not completely _destroy_ everything which comes within touching distance!"

England crossed his arms and huffed self-righteously. He stood haughtily waiting for America to say something indignant (or at least throw something marginally heavy in his direction.)When no insults or blunt objects were forthcoming, England frowned and chanced a glance in the boy's direction. America was giving him the strangest look, glazed eyes sliding lazily from the brim of his hat to his face and back again.

England rolled his eyes. "When you're done looking a fool- wait, let me rephrase. When you're finished being _yourself,_ I brought food."

Nothing like the mention of stomach filling (typically artery-clogging) calories to bring America back to earth.

"Really?" His head popped up, his ears perked and England swore a tail magically began waging behind him. (And it was most certainly _not_ the most adorable thing ever).

"Yes." England rummaged through the box he'd snagged from the carriage before chasing after America. He emerged after a moment holding a picnic basket. "I…um _prepared_ this myself." He ducked his head, attempting to hide the rising color in his face and thankfully missing the horrified widening of America's eyes.

"Is that the real reason you brought me out here? Trying to drag me away from everyone I know and love so you can feed me poison and then burry my body in a shallow grave where no one will ever be able to find-"

"GIT, YOU DON'T HAVE TO EAT IT IF YOU DON'T WANT TO! Besides-" England's voice caught as his embarrassment came back full force. "I…bought you some burgers already anyway." He turned to face America, pulling a red and yellow bag out of the basket in his lap. The boy stared at him with wide eyes as England passed the parcel over. "I knew you wouldn't want to eat my cooking anyway, so I got this before coming to get you." (He didn't mention the small ache he felt at the idea of America voluntarily eating something he'd made.)

America took the bag, still starring at England with that strange, glazed expression. He didn't make any move to undo the wrapping.

"I feel like you and I haven't been spending enough time together." England muttered, fumbling with the bundle of handmade scones. He pulled the lumps of bread (concrete) apart and began shoveling bits into his mouth, refusing to meet America's eyes. "I mean really, we're an ocean apart and you really should make the time to come and visit rather than making me spend all my time with that bloody pervert and-

America sat silently watching England ramble and choke himself on lumpy bits of what appeared to be charcoal. "Iggy?"

The blonde snapped out of his rant which seemed be revolving around some kind of sprout to meet America's gaze.

"Shut up."

England spluttered indignantly, watching as America reached over to pluck a scone from his lap and pop it into his mouth. His heart stopped, green eyes following the up and down motion of America's jaw as he worked to "food" over in his mouth. (And dear god America was eating his food of his own free will). England's heart was hammering so desperately it was almost painful.

America continued to chew, eyes closed and brows slightly knitted in concentration. Finally, he finished, swallowing with what looked like an enormous effort of will. "Wow England, that was great!" He lied through his smile. (And England didn't even care because America had eaten his food. America had cared enough about his feelings to lie.)

Then suddenly America's entire face went a violent shade of purple, and he keeled over, not moving.

England blinked down at America's unconscious form for a moment before leaning over to check his vital signs.

Ah, he wasn't breathing.

_How wonderful._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> And remember, every time you don't leave feedback Timothy Filbert is assaulted by England. (He sends his regards.)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OPERATION: "British Seduction"  
> STATUS: Stratagem "Juliet" failure  
> REASSESS--> Mission upgrade  
> STRATAGEM: "Kilo"  
> COMMENCE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sweden is more likely to receive a "Most Beautiful Smile" award than I am to own Hetalia.  
> (Translations at end of chapter)

_Chapter 11: Stratagem Kilo_

After a few tense moments in which England internally debated whether or not mouth-to-mouth would be appropriate, America gave a great shuddering cough and his chest began to move steadily up and down ( _damn it all_ ).

With a (disappointed) sigh, England leaned over to check the boy's vitals once again. He was still unconscious, but everything else seemed to be in order. England allowed his fingers to drift from America's throbbing pulse to his hair, brushing a few stray blond bangs away from his slightly sweaty forehead. He gave the smallest of shudders as America's labored breath washed over his exposed wrist. It seemed as though the lad was out stone cold. Lucky for him that he was a nation. Any normal human would probably have been hospitalized—at the very least—after coming into contact with England's scones. (He had seen it happen).

England _had_ hoped that if he labored long enough, the scones would come out as something a little more like food and a little less like poisonous charcoal, but apparently "edible" was still beyond his skill to obtain. (The thought of _hurting_ America—even by accident— certainly did _not_ make his stomach grow cold with guilt. Git probably deserved it for… _something._ )

He peered down at the boy’s flushed face. He couldn't very well leave America here all by himself, at least not in his current condition. But the bleedin' horse had run off somewhere, and it wasn't as if the carriage driver would actually come looking for them (He was a discourteous, self-centered American, after all)—which left England with one option.

England rolled up his sleeves before slipping one arm beneath America's upper back and the other under the crook of his knees. With a grunt he stood, hoisting the boy up from the ground. America gave a small shudder, his golden head shifting to curl softly against the curve of England's neck. (And England most certainly did _not_ let out a girlish squeak at the way America's lips brush every-so-slightly against his skin before falling away.)

Securing his grip on the other nation, England took a shaky step back in the direction they had come. Lord knew how far from America's home they had wondered or how long he would have to lug the boy's fat arse. Because America most certainly _had_ to be obese with his strictly carbs-and-lard diet. How else could one explain the boy's weight? (There was no _way_ America could have more muscle-mass than him, despite all his inhuman strength, constant exercise and World Power status. Nope. It had to be fat.)

England sighed, striding forward down the path. Yet another of his attempts had failed (no thanks to America's own childish stupidity). He should have known better than to have arrived with a horse in toe. The boy's western wiles had never quite worn off. He looked into the sky above, marveling in the brightness of the stars…America's warmth against his chest…

He wanted for this to work out _so_ badly. Yet for every step he took forward, England somehow managed to hurl himself one hundred meters back. Or perhaps it was the opposite, perhaps he was really pushing America farther and farther away, widening that horrific gap between them, a gap far larger than the span of any ocean…

No, there was no use dwelling on his failures. What England needed to do now was to think of a way to make his feelings breach the idiot's thick skull. He had to be the one to cross that gapping divide and make that addlebrained, egotistical moron realise just how bloody _wonderful_ England thought he was. But what could he do to make America see? What commonalities did they share which bridged that great divide between them?

The Beetles? No, he'd already tried (and failed miserably at) that course of action.

National Symbols? Nope. Been there, done that. (And narrowly avoided the hellish wrath of Russia in the process).

A flare for the romantic? England groaned. He daren't even need mention his current catastrophe circumstances.

What then?

A flicker of light caught England's eye, and he turned to see a small pond situated next to the path he was traveling. He saw himself, hair and dress disheveled, holding the equally grimy America in his arms. The boy looked surprisingly frail in sleep, small and thin and so very unlike the obnoxious brat he was in waking hours. His glasses sat rather crookedly on the bridge of his nose, only adding to his childish appearance. His mouth was slightly ajar, letting out the softest puffs of breath with every exhale. England stood there for a moment, simply admiring the sight of their two forms so close and alone in the still of the night. He smiled sadly, feeling that familiar ache of longing curl coldly around his heart.

_If only…_

He started as a fish jumped up from the water, diving back into the depths before England could catch a true glimpse of it. He watched the ripples of its disturbance travel over the water's surface-

Wait. _Water_.

England’s heart leapt as a sudden idea sprang to life in the back of his mind. He spun on his heel, meaning to make a hasty retreat, only to freeze as he felt the boy stir against him. England inhaled sharply as America unconsciously nuzzled closer to him, the boy's arms reaching up to wrap securely around his neck. "England…" he murmured sleepily.

_Gently, England lifted the sleeping form into his arms. The child stirred, bleary blue eyes peering up at him from the spot against his chest. "..England? Wha-?"_

" _Shh lad, you feel asleep. I'm taking you to bed."_

" _Okay. G'night England." Two small hands gripped softly at the front of his shirt. "I love you."_

_England smiled, pressing his lips into that sea of golden hair._

America murmured unintelligibly against his shirt, his arms tightening their hold. England smiled a sad little smile, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He laid the barest of kisses against the boy's warm forehead.

"I love you too America."

\---

America was spinning. But how was that even possible? He was laying down—had to be. There was something soft and oddly starchy beneath him, pressing against his back. It felt like jeans that had been air-dried rather than thrown in the dryer like what normal people did with their laundry in the twenty-first century. Downy much? He moved his feet cautiously over the scratchy-starchy-lacking-fabric-softener-surface, never opening his eyes. Yep, definitely laying down.

But why did he feel like he was spinning? Or, really, why the hell did it feel like the earth was moving? He could feel himself being gently jostled about, almost like he was laying on a water bed someone had just jumped on. It was like the ground was moving under him…

America suddenly sat bolt upright, eyes going wide. "HOLY SHIT IT'S AN EARTHQUAKE!"

"Ah, you're awake."

America's head jerked to the side and he cried out in pain. "Ow, son of a bitch! That hurt!" Rubbing the side of his neck, he glanced up in the direction of the voice. Only to come face to face with England. Who was smirking for some reason. And happened to have a tie wrapped around his head. Weirdo.

He decided to let England's strange Britishness slide—more important things to be worrying about. Like the fact that he had just woken up in the middle of an Earthquake.

"Iggy, dude, it's an earthquake! We gotta get out of here, man! I mean, I'll probably be fine ‘cus I'm strong and totally boss like that, but you're all weak and limey! As a hero, it's my job to rescue damsels in distress, so take my awesome warning and get out of here before you get crushed by a wall, or fall into a fault line or stub your toe or-"

" _America_." England cut him off with a glare. "Shut up."

America bristled, fists clenching at his sides. Here he was just trying to save England who was probably too much of a wuss to even survive a mag-three earthquake (did they even have those at his house?) and the jerk was being rude to him. He would have saved his own ass and left England to be crushed by falling buildings except he was a hero. And heroes didn't do that shit.

"No, I _won't_ shut up. Maybe you should pull out that stick you've had shoved up your ass for the past two hundred years and stop being a dick so we can get out of here!"

England smirked. _Again_. Jackass. "Maybe you could use those eyes you've had sitting in your head since birth to realise there _isn't_ an earthquake. We're on a boat."

"…" America's head turned slowly, first glancing at the slats of wood beneath his feet, then trailing to the sail whipping in the breeze and finally taking in the seemingly endless stretch of blue surrounding them on all sides.

"…Oh."

_Never mind_.

England was still sitting with that arrogant little smirk on his face, sipping was appeared to be red wine. But everyone knew England wasn't really a big fan of what he called "that frog's foul brew". (Rum maybe?) In fact, there were a lot of strange things about England at the moment. Not only was he drinking wine/rum/Kool-Aid or whatever-the-hell with a striped tie wrapped around his head, but he was also wearing a billowy white shirt with puffy sleeves. His pants were tight, kinda like leggings, and he had on thick brown leather boots—the kind America would normally take hiking. But the weirdest thing of all were the top couple of buttons of his shirt. Which were undone. _Purposefully_ undone.

… _the hell?_

Shifting through the million-and-seven questions he had teeming in his mind, America finally settled on what he thought to be the most vital given the current circumstances.

"Why is your chest showing?"

_Pure genius_.

England blinked silently at him for a few moments before letting out a loud, barking laugh. Goosebumps began to prickle on every piece of America's exposed skin. He knew that laugh.

"Why the bloody hell shouldn't it?" England continued to laugh, sloshing his red-whatever-the-hell beverage over the sides of his cup. (Or maybe it was a mug? Iggy called those things tankards or pints or something, right?) "I'm the ruddy British Empire! You should be honored to even be in my presence!"

Yep, there was no doubt about it. England was hammered.

And he was currently in badass mode, which meant that next came sobbing, hugging and a whole bunch of "You ungrateful git! Why'd you leave me like that? How could you betray me?"

_How nice_.

Not really in the mood to deal with an intoxicated England who had most likely kidnapped and isolated him in the middle of the ocean just to annoy the hell out of him, America buried his face in his hands. "Look Iggy," he murmured to his fingers. "I don't really care why you're drunk or how I got out here. Just get me a lifeboat so I can tug my ass back to shore before you go all apeshit about the Revolution."

He peeked out from between his fingers, expecting England to at least throw a shoe or his mug (Tankard? Pint?) at him. But the England just continued to laugh that same, annoying "holier-than-thou" laugh that America thought was reserved for him and him alone (and maybe Prussia too, ‘cus Gil was just cool like that).

England stood, making his way towards America with slow, deliberate steps. It almost looked like he was waltzing. Or taking a field-sobriety test. Either way, the effect was unnerving and America sat frozen to his deck chair as the older nation drew nearer and nearer. "Do you really think the reason I brought you out here today was to whine about an event that occurred centuries ago?" Those emerald eyes were fixed on America, pinning him to his seat like an insect petrified in amber, like a mouse caught with its paw in a trap, like a really fat guy at a restaurant where the booths were too small.

Or something like that.

"No, I wanted to take you out to do something we both enjoy. Sailing has always been a rich part of my history, and what with your stunningly impressive Navy…" England was directly in front of him now, kneeling down so that one of his knees rested against America's chair. "I figured you would enjoy a short voyage. Though the rather overwhelming size of your fleet is… _telling_ to say the least. Compensating for something?"

What a douche! How dare he imply that America wasn't- that his Navy was just a cover for-America growled, meeting England's amused gaze with a piercing glare.No talked that way about Florida.

Before he could yell at England for being a dick or kick his ass all the way to Timbuktu, England cut back in. "Not that it matters. I really brought you here because I have something important to say," he smirked, leaning over so that their faces were inches apart. Why the hell was America's heart suddenly doing somersaults? This was England, not gymnastics, get your shit straight!

Engalnd's eyes were burring holes into America's retinas, his warm breath fanning across his face, smelling sweet and bitter with-

"The Kool-Aid is rum!"

"…What?"

"The stuff you're drinking that I thought was Kool-Aid is actually rum. I can tell by the smell. I knew it couldn't be wine because you hate France and most of it comes from there, unless you count my totally awesome vineyards in Cali. I swear, American wine's the way to go. 'Course, pretty much American _anything_ is the way to go ‘cus it comes from me, the awesome hero!"

England, whose face had been inching closer and closer by the second, deflated instantly. America vaguely wondered why, but then decided he didn't care in light of his new discovery. "Dude, I was totally right! I don't know why people are always telling me I'm wrong. I'm a frickin' genius. Mattie'd never be able to pull off that trick. I could totally tell just from the smell! Like a freakin’ _blood hound_. How cool is that? The world just needs to stand back and accept my brilliance! I bet they would if they knew about this. _SO_ many people would be lining up to support my ideas instead of just Japan. Not that Kiku isn't cool, it's just-"

America was abruptly cut off as a piece of cloth was shoved in his mouth. "Shut it before I end you." England growled, turning tail and stalking off towards the wheel. America frowned, spitting out the cloth and glaring after England. Why'd he have to be such a douche all the time? All America wanted to do was share his genius with him. Yet he had to get his panties all in a wad. Prick.

Standing up and stretching, America brushed off his bathing suit and- wait, a bathing suit? When the hell had he put that on? And how in the world did he end up on a ship with England anyway? He vaguely remembered some things about the night before. He was pretty sure there had been a horse, and England had had that sad look in his eyes that had led him, as the totally awesome hero he was, to eat those awful ass scones…He shuddered violently at the memory. The rest was a (most likely blessed) blur. But that still didn't explain how he wasn't wearing the clothes he'd dressed in for his and England's meeting (Date? Scheduled event?).

America's entire body grew cold as a horrifying conclusion dawned on him. "Iggy," he called toward the figure at the helm. "…did you _change_ my _clothes_?"

The only response he got was smirk.

_Holy shit._

What a bastard.

\---

England had been at the wheel for a while now. They'd traveled as far as he was willing to go with half the day blown by, and he was turning the vessel back towards port. They hadn't spoken much the entire journey, America muttering under his breath about "limey old perverts" or something of that nature for the past hour and a half, but refusing to answer any queries England posed him.

England was pissed. ( _Pissed_ , not sulky. Most definitely _not_ sulky or in any way disheartened or disappointed or wanting to throw heavy objects at small children.) He had come up with this elaborate plan specifically with the hope of bonding with America over a mutual interest. Of course, the git just couldn't get past the idea of England changing his clothes. It was just a bathing suit! It's not like he could have boarded the ship in his wrinkled dress things from the night before. Besides, the lad still had his drawers on underneath it, so what was the problem here? (It wasn't like England had actually _looked_ or anything as he'd changed him. And he most _certainly_ hadn't taken in candid photos to add to the _nonexistent_ collection he had hidden in his brief case. Nope. Utter rubbish. )

He sighed again, glancing at America who had taken to the rail, leaning over and allowing the sea breeze to play sweetly over the soft curves of his face. England took a moment to simply admire the glow of the sun which reflected, pure gold, in the waves of his hair. The boy suddenly moved, stepping up onto the first few rungs of the railing and flinging his arms out to his sides. He laughed in that charmingly boyish way of his, shooting England his trademark, heart-melting smile. "I'm flying Jack!"

It was so ridiculously adorable that England couldn't help but laugh along with him (while fighting the urge to run up behind and grip the boy's waist so they could do the damn reference properly).

Before he could do anything, however, America pointed out towards the sea. "Captain, enemy vessel off the port bow!"

"That's starboard."

"Whatever, dude just look!" America called, still pointing.

England decided to humor him, glancing to his right and expecting to see a stray sea gull or piece of garbage floating along in the current, only to come face to face with vibrant crimson and gold colors of a long time frienemy.

"Hola amigos! What brings you out here, ah?"

Spain. On a ship. In _his_ territory.

Oh it was _on_.

"That's none of your concern. Although, I think the more important question is why _you_ of all people decided to take a jaunt through _my_ waters, Antonio." England called back with a smirk, angling his own vessel to run parallel to Spain's. (And his was _so_ much bigger).

"Uh, don't get me wrong friend, but isn't this still considered Estados Unidos' territory?" Spain was scratching the back of his head and chuckling nervously.

England chanced a glance at America who was sticking his tongue out at him childishly. (Insolent little twerp).

Deciding to ignore the brat at the present, England bit back another heated retort. "As I very well reminded you back in 1588, all of the seven seas are my domain." (Was England's ego screwing with his eyes, or did Spain just flinch?)

"Uh, Iggles? You know there are only five oceans, right?"

"Shut that mouth of yours, it's an expression!"

America just shot him another cheeky grin (arrogant little bastard) before waving at the slightly smaller figure that came to stand next to Spain.

"What the hell is going on here?" Romano stood with his arms crossed and his brows furrowed, glaring across at them. "I'm hungry. Is this what's keeping me from lunch? You said you were getting the tomatoes Spain-bastard."

Completely oblivious, as always, to the tension in the air (and particularly between Romano's eyebrows), America continued to wave excitedly. "Dude! Romano, Spain, what's up?"

"The sky!" Spain responded immediately, pointing upwards. (And for about the two hundredth time in the past thirty seconds, England wondered why he and America weren't best mates. Birds of a feather.) "And the clouds and birds and the sun and la Rojigualda and-"

"Shut the hell up!" Romano growled, plunging his ears. "Your damn voice is getting on my nerves!" (And for about the three hundredth time in the past fifteen _s_ econds, England wondered why he and Romano weren't chums. Then he realised Romano was a volatile prick with a penchant for throwing tantrums when things did not go his way. Right, as if England ever acted like _that_ …) "Just get my damn food ready!"

"Aww, is someone getting cranky?" Spain cooed, pinching Romano's cheeks. ( _Bloody hell, did the fool have a death wish?)_

Romano went scarlet, throwing off Spain's hand and hurling (rather ineffective) punches at his side. "Bastardo! Puttana! Your mother had a mustache! You father loved potatoes! Tua sorella scopa tedeschi! I'll kill you and your French-loving face!"

He continued to rant, throwing deck chairs and life vests and _bloody hell was that an anchor_?

And like any rational adult would in this situation, America was on all fours laughing his head off. Such maturity.

"Romano!" He howled, smacking his knees and whiling tears from his eyes. "Man, you Euros...I swear you're all nuts." (England fought the urge to correct America because no, he and other European nations were _not_ pieces of currency. He didn't even use those ruddy Euro things.)

"What was that culone?"

Romano seized a tomato and hurled towards America. Except, being Italian and therefore incapable of any type of athletic activity (except those which involved women under the cloak of night), he missed. Widely. In fact, his aim was so off that he managed to hit an entirely new target: England.

England stood frozen, suspended in a place where time and space held no meaning as the red chunks of fruit flesh slowly slid down his emotionless face. That was, until America pointed at him and began laughing his arse off.

There were many things in this world England could put up with—war, famine, randy Frenchmen with access to his bedroom—but he drew the line at projectile fruit.

Turning slowly to face his adversary, bits of red goo oozing down the side of his face, England cracked the smile which had driven a chilling steak of fear into the hearts of men for generations. "Romano my dear," he smirked, wiping daintily at the corner of his eye. "This means _war_."

"What was that, testa di paglia?" Romano cackled. "You aren't the big bad wolf you used to be! That's the burger bastard." He pointed towards the still laugh-howling America. "He's the _world power_. You're just a _vecchio_ , a has-been, a washed up old geezer with a moldy scone for a brain!"

"Roma..." Spain was hiding behind the smaller nation's back, his eyes locked on England's face. "Now would be a good time to cállate..." He was trembling, but Romano didn't seem to notice.

"What was that Spain-bastard?"

(England's eyebrow twitched.)

"Really Romano...please, be quiet."

"You shut up and get me more tomatoes!"

(England's fists clenched.)

"Romano, I'm begging you."

"Why should I? He's just a sissy bambina with his freaky imaginary friends and that magic crap that doesn't work and those stupid giant eyebrows-"

(England could take jabs at his friends, his magic, even his height, but no one, absolutely _no one_ ragged on the _brows_.)

There was a sudden, violent cracking noise as half the railing of Spain's ship was forcibly ripped off. England stood directly in front of Romano, a pleasant smile twisting his lips and the broken half of the railing dangling from his other hand.

"Aie!" Romano jumped back, eyes going wide. "Dio! What the fuck? How did you get over here?"

England continued to smile, a manic glint in his dark green eyes. "You really shouldn't have said that."

\---

It is said that Spain was later found clutching at a severed piece of mast floating in the middle of the ocean wearing nothing but floral nightgown.

And Romano was... _discovered_ by France, completely naked and tied to a lone rock out at sea with a single tomato to shield his... _vital regions_.

And thus the day went down as Italy's darkest hour of the twenty-first century.

It was only after they reached shore that England, flushed with victory, realised he had completely forgotten his confession to America.

Oh...how wonderful.

_(God DAMN IT!)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! And remember, every time you don't review Finland cancels Christmas. Think of the pres- I mean- children! D:
> 
> Spanish Translations (which are mostly obvious)  
> Hola amigos- Hello friends  
> Estados Unidos- United States  
> La Rojigualda- Colloquial term for the Spanish flag (similar to Old Glory or the Union Jack)  
> Cállate- Be quiet  
> Italian Translations (warning: Romano is not suitable for all ages)  
> Bastardo- Bastard  
> Puttana- Whore  
> Tua sorella scopa tedeschi- Your sister fucks Germans  
> Culone- Ass  
> Testa di paglia- Straw head (literally head of straw)  
> Vecchio- Old (man)  
> Bambina- Little girl  
> Dio- God

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. It's my first time posting something on AO3, so please let me know if there's anything you think I could change about the formatting/tags/etc. to make it more readable/accessible. 
> 
> Next chapter to be posted tomorrow.
> 
> -YG


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